


To Love is to Burn

by jura_moon



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Falling In Love, Holding Hands, Kissing in the Rain, Oral Sex, Regency, Regency Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex, lingering glances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26857033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jura_moon/pseuds/jura_moon
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Mandalorian in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Original Character(s), Din Djarin & Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin & You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting from Tumblr (jura-moon) where I have more stories, this was my first ever fanfiction and I'm sincerely attached to it. 
> 
> The story itself strangely came about while re-watching the first episode of the Mandalorian, and I kind of had this scenario invade my whole two brain cells that if Mando and IG-11 were bounty hunting partners, Mando would refer to IG by his full name, Ignatius, when he lost his temper. Which would be often. 
> 
> You bet your ass Ignatius looks like Taika Waititi.

To your mind there had not been such a lively gathering in the town of Cerea in an age. The summer weather had been late but fierce in arriving, and the balmy evening blended pleasantly with the wine flowing through the assembly hall among dancers, musicians and gossiping gentry. 

The crowded rooms were glittering with candles, and the palladian ceilings let the sound of laughter and clinking glassware echo dizzyingly above heads studded with feathers and jewels. 

Approaching a rowdy card table with two glasses of wine, you were just in time to see your favourite person in the room win yet another round of whist. Groans erupted from the other players as your sister Carasynthia, glowing in pale yellow silk, leaned back in her seat and casually threw down her cards, her grin widening as she holds a hand out blindly for the second glass you’d returned with. 

“By the end of the evening, you’ll have almost enough winnings for my wage as your butler ” you remarked, gently clinking crystal with her in congratulations. 

“Any butler of mine would have thought to also bring me something sweet from the tea board, you have been demoted, sweet sister” she replied, finally turning to you as she reached out to playfully flick a dangling pearl at your ear. 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage as you primly and pointedly take a seat next to her, “And have you giddy from sugar, clawing at my door in the middle of the night to entertain you? I think not.” 

A huff of a laugh escapes her before she takes a sip of wine and scans the room as you are drawn into a conversation with the others at the table. It had become busier in the time her attention had been focused on the game, with revelers trickling back into the larger hall to resume dancing after supper.

“Your next dance is with Colonel Arvala is it not?” she asks as new cards are dealt around the table. You hum in confirmation as you lean into her side to peek at her hand, laughing when she makes a show of swatting at you with them. 

“He’s finally returned from town, i’m looking forward to hearing how much of the city survived…” you say as you idly tug the top of one of your gloves back into place around your upper arm and glance over your shoulder, half expecting to see him appear as if magically summoned.

Within minutes of returning your attention to the company at the table, the gentle thrum of stringed instruments gradually build from providing background noise into a louder, more recognisable tune signalling the next set is about to begin. 

Eager to be twirling away some of the energy that had been refreshed during the break, you turn once again to scan the room, and this time are rewarded with the sight of your dance partner crossing the floor to you. He’s easy to spot, standing taller than everyone around him, and his roguish smile is contagious as you feel own expression lift to match as you stand to greet him.

“Ignatius Arvala at your service, Miss Dune,” he says with exaggerated gallantry and a bow at the waist before holding his arm out for you to take. 

You feel him bend this time as he greets Cara, who has now turned to do her duty of looking suspiciously over the man whisking away her baby sister; the effect only slightly ruined by the tilt of her mouth and exasperated lift of her eyes to the ceiling as she returns to play. 

Wry humoured and often scandalising his neighbours with progressive views or his choice of cravat knot, Colonel Arvala was also well respected and ever a gentleman. His stride is consciously shortened to match your own as he leads you across the floor to take your places, but seeing the first steps have already begun he pauses a moment to gauge the whirl of skirts and coat tails. You’re almost fully prepared for it as he takes your hand and swings you bodily into place to join the set, a giddy laugh escaping you as the light material of your gown gently flares with the movement. 

“You are looking particularly well this evening, my dear.” He says when the steps bring you together, and despite a lifetime of friendship, you still feel yourself blush at such a statement from someone outside your household. The ivory muslin gown had been worn before, your family not quite so wealthy for you to have a new one for every dance, but it was one of your favourites with a wide, graceful neckline, offset with a small string of pearls at your throat and short sleeves that lightly brush the top of your gloves with movement.

“Thank you, Colonel, and dare I say that not one neighbour will have reason to gossip on this evening’s choice of cravat?” you reply as you next join hands, referring to the uproar he’d once incited in sporting a Sentimentale knot to a dinner party attended by some of the county’s most enthusiastic busybodies. He laughs but a response is cut short as you move away from each other to loop round the next couple. 

As you move down the set you hear about his time in Coruscant, his enthusiasm for the latest in theatre is evident in his vivid descriptions of the productions he liked best, and although you had not been to town since winter you feel as if you were in the stalls with him through his storytelling. 

Circling another couple, you glimpse a new group being enthusiastically introduced to those closest to the door by another of your neighbours, Mr Karga, and your curiosity is piqued by the prospect of new arrivals in the area. 

Your partner too has noticed the latest additions to the room and his face is uncharacteristically serious when you once again face him. As his gaze slides back down to your face to find you studying him, he startles, the cold expression quickly fading to be replaced a rakish grin. The rest of your dance is spent laughing together, and by the time the final note sounds you feel light, happy and ready for another refreshment. Taking the Colonel’s arm once again, you allow your companion to steer you towards a quieter portion of the room in search of a seat to continue your conversation. Crowds seem to have an infuriating habit of parting naturally for him, so it’s not long until you find yourself deposited in a chair and he’s gone in search of drinks. 

Lost in the sea of swirling fabrics a glove on your shoulder makes you startle, until yellow silk fills your vision and Cara is settling into another of the chairs across from you looking pleased with herself. Snapping open her fan she closes her eyes to enjoy the movement of air across her face and sinks further into the plush cushions.

“That look doesn’t bode well for the other players, does this mean you have my pay?” you ask putting your hand out expectantly, retracting it quickly with squeak when for the second time this evening she swats at you, this time the fan her weapon of choice. 

“I’m afraid that with my new fortune I will be hiring a new servant, someone less impertinent I think…” she trails off as the Colonel returns and, having foreseen that she would be there, had brought drinks for three.

Settled between the Dune sisters, Ignatius was happy to be home and among friends despite the tiredness weighing on him from the journey. The only blemish on the evening was the appearance of an unexpected acquaintance, but before he could dwell too long on that particular arrival he was brought into the present by the arrival of Cara’s next dance partner. You were both surprised to see that it was Mr Mayfeld, the son of a prominent Empire Party MP, and with whom Cara frequently clashed in conversation when they were in company. 

She shrugs a shoulder subtly at you as she stands and you can’t help but bodily watch them go, turning the entire way in your seat to confirm that your sister really is standing up with him.

“Well! Is Miss Dune to be swayed from her wishy-washy New Republic views at last?” Colonel Arvala asks with a seriousness that has you whipping round in your seat with a wide eyed smile to playfully scold him and a reminder to never let her hear him say such a thing, but your attention is caught by Mr Karga appearing over his shoulder and you both rise politely to greet him. 

“Miss Dune, Colonel Arvala, capital to see you both in good spirits, your dancing does our little town credit! May I do the honour of presenting my friends Mr Kuiil and Mr Djarin to you?” he asks, turning smartly to the two men beside him. 

Immediately you drop into a curtsy, and with your head bowed you feel a curl come loose from it’s pin at the back of your head, bouncing onto your collarbone as you rise. Thinking nothing of it, you greet them both warmly and ask if they were pleased by their first impression of the town. 

The Colonel, standing slightly behind you and having said nothing beyond his curt bow, stiffens. You felt the slight jerk of fabric from his jacket against your arm prompting you to glance briefly towards him in concern as you listen to Mr Kuiil’s polite but sincere praise for what he’s seen of Cerea so far.

You see that Arvala’s eyes are once again cold, focused on the younger of the two new gentlemen and though you’re curious, you’re mindful of your manners and return your attention to where it should be. 

When Mr Kuiil queries further into Ignatius’s military background, you feel safe searching out the reason for that icy stare, but when you look across at him, you find Mr Djarin’s gaze is already on you.

You immediately drop your eyes, but the intense brown of Mr Djarin’s are already seared into your mind and you’re mortified as you feel yourself flush.

Tilting slightly more towards the tall and steady form of your friend as his conversation with Mr Kuiil and Mr Karga continues, you’re grateful when the latter asks if you plan on taking a turn at the pianoforte in the other room, where guests are entertaining those indulging in tea and coffee.

You laughingly but firmly decline, knowing Karga’s skill in persuasion thanks to a lifetime in the legal profession you make a point of stating that your shameful lack of practice recently would only offend those gathered. 

He begins his immediate rebuttal, and you tactfully change the subject by enquiring after his family. 

As he dives into the topic of his grandchildren with enthusiasm, you feel a gentle tug at the top of your right glove which has once again shifted a small distance down your upper arm. The Colonel, standing at your left shoulder, had carefully reached up behind you to pull the material back into place, immediately removing his hand and without missing a beat, offers Karga’s youngest grandson the use of his stables to facilitate his new passion for learning to horse ride. 

The topic of horses seems to light a fire in the elder of your new acquaintance, and Mr Kuiil seems to be in his element as he recalls teaching his companion this evening to ride as a young man.

“Never had I seen a boy less suited to the saddle, eh Djarin?” he asks, patting his friend’s arm and jovially ignoring the surly silence he receives for an answer as he continues his tale. 

You can’t help but smile at the interaction, and you finally take a proper look at the man who is now pointedly looking somewhere over your right shoulder. 

He’s handsome, you can’t deny, but he’s also intimidating. Something in the still way he stands, without fidgeting or unnecessary movement reminds you of the predators in far off lands you’d read about in books, and his countenance although serious, gives nothing away. 

His eyes snap to yours, and this time you manage to stop yourself from shying away, offering a small helpless smile in consolation for his friend now revealing that fall number seven was a particularly ungraceful one. He doesn’t return the gesture, but doesn’t look away either and so you’re able to see the slight and involuntary slackening of his countenance when Mr Kuiil asks if you like to ride. 

“Unfortunately Miss Dune prefers both of her feet on the ground,” Colonel Arvala says nonchalantly as he leans to collect your wine glass that had been left on the small table beside your seats. 

“Preferences can change,” Mr Djarin’s low voice interjects, his tone mild but self-assured as he finally breaks his silence, and despite it being a perfectly valid observation, you can’t help feeling like you’ve missed a step and take a sip of wine to delay your reply.

During this exchange, Mr Karga’s attention had been diverted by the arrival of a steward, and you are saved from making any response by excusing himself from your group with his usual exuberance, happy in the knowledge his two friends were in good company while he saw to some business.

“Come now, we have kept the lady standing long enough,” Mr Kuiil says as he pulls out the chair you had been occupying earlier, “you’ll be dancing again shortly I imagine Miss Dune.”

“No please join us, I’ve danced my last for the evening.” You say as you sit, and despite the apparent coldness between himself and Mr Djarin, Colonel Arvala’s smile is customarily present and easy as he too gestures to the empty seats in invitation. 

Mr Kuiil is full of interesting stories you soon discover, he is well travelled and has a captivating way with words that soon gathers people to fill the other chairs to hear him. Finished with her dance, Cara is one of the new additions and ignoring other available spots, she stands pointedly by Arvala who has commandeered the spot next to you. His face is somehow both the picture of innocence and mischief as he blinks up at her, one long arm reaches out to the empty chair on his other side in a motion to pull it out, but seeing her eyebrow raise finally unfolds himself and moves over with a hand to his chest in a small playful bow. 

You witness these antics without a second thought, their good-natured rivalry having begun in childhood when Cara, furious with the new playmate you’d both been saddled with that afternoon for using his already unusual height to toss the swing seat over the branch and out of reach, had snatched up her skirt and scaled the tree with a deftness that rendered young Ignatius mute. The gangly young boy had plopped down in the grass next to you as you clapped, starry eyed for your hero, while she kneeled on the branch to unravel the ropes. Her task complete she had placed her hands on her hips and stared defiantly down at Ignatius Arvala sitting slack-jawed in the grass. 

In that moment you had reached your childish little hand out to prod the irresistible dimple that had formed on his cheek with his mouth hanging open, and his head had spun to you with a speed that had you giggling like it was a game; he was done for. Despite initially sulking at being forced to put up with two frilly girls, he found himself grinning back before looking eagerly to your sister for the next activity.

As the final dance of the evening is approaching, and while the Colonel is doing the duty of introducing your sister to the new arrivals during a gap in the conversation, you take the opportunity to excuse yourself. The curl of hair that had come loose earlier was now tickling with every movement of your head and you’re eager for it to be back in place.

As you cross the room and disappear into the crowd, you fail to notice the eyes of Din Djarin riveted to your back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more stories @jura-moon on tumblr where I'm more active.

The Dunes of the estate of Alderaan were a small but formidable family in almost every way. Kuiil had now known them for three weeks, and was generally pleased with his new neighbours. 

The father was imperious and clever, but had too little endurance for the company of others after seeing war to become a true tyrant. His wife was rarely seen in public, somehow turning her absence from gatherings into anticipation for her fashionable attendance, but he was told by Colonel Arvala she was polite if a little cold. There was a son, the eldest child, who like his father had joined the military at the first opportunity and was currently abroad until he came into his inheritance. 

In the two younger siblings, Kuiil had found sincere and easy friendship. Carasynthia had her familial fierceness but despite this, and despite an apparent lack of warmth in her upbringing, she was kind albeit direct. Her sister the youngest seemed the anomaly of the family, with a softness that had survived despite clear attempts to stamp it out. She was clever like her father and sister, but quieter in her capabilities; prone to observation but also quick witted. He had mentioned to Din that in another world Cara would undoubtedly be a warrior, while you would make a formidable tactician. 

Or he noted with amusement, after witnessing you shrewdly diffuse an agitated conversation between Cara and a young man named Mayfeld, a politician. 

You were walking through the woods of Alderaan, where among old trees and wild scenery beyond the tame gardens of the house you were usually happy, but for the past three days you had been using your walks to escape the house.

In an unusual move your father had consented to the application of a cousin to stay. At first you had been inclined to like him, he was young, good humoured and seemed eager to enjoy his time in the country, however it wasn’t long until your opinion started to change and you began to avoid interacting with him when possible.

Taking a deep breath as you wander, your shoulders drop as the weight of staying hospitable when you wish to be otherwise is lifted. Cara had not yet come down from her rooms and planned to take the carriage to visit a friend at a more suitable hour, so you were free of any guilt that you were leaving her to your guest alone.

The sound of hooves against the woodland floor draw your attention and you feel a pleasant flutter in your stomach when you see it’s Mr Djarin approaching. In the short time of your acquaintance, you had begun to feel like you were walking on a rope over a large drop when in company with him. 

At first you had thought him to be shy, barely speaking in your presence and often moving to stand stiffly by the window, but you had discarded that theory when you witnessed his almost easy interactions with your sister and shockingly even playing a round of cards with your father after a dinner one evening. So you could only conclude it was personal to you, and with his approach you wondered how he would handle an interaction with you alone, something you were also wondering how you yourself would cope with. 

More than once you’d thought about the pleasant burn that had rolled across your skin when your eyes had met Mr Djarin’s at that first assembly, and there was an instinctive, gnawing desperation to feel it again. 

As he drew up on horseback, you curtsied and looked up expecting a nod of the head or brief “good morning” before he continued on his way but you’re surprised when he swings his leg over to dismount before the horse is truly stopped. 

“You’re walking alone?” He speaks as soon as his boots hit the ground, and as he steps towards you his eyes sweep your entire form quickly. You’re taken aback by the abrupt greeting and appraisal, wondering if something had happened, but then again he’d been riding sedately, alone himself and you had set out recently enough someone from the house could have caught up.

“As you see, Mr Djarin.” you can’t help the light tease enter your voice and you see as his shoulders twitch, although his face remains perfectly unmoved. You consider then that he might not be offended by your presence so much as unused to your habitual playfulness, and you hope that’s the case as you attempt to continue despite the voice in your head reminding you that a lady shouldn’t be in a man’s company alone.

“I often make this walk, it’s quite safe and the view from the top is one of my favourites…” you trail off as you gesture to a path a little further ahead. It climbs up to a break in the trees where the woodland drops off a face of rugged stone, continuing at the base until it hits the nearby lake as if the water had pulled that section of the earth down. On the opposite side are mountains, capped with snow despite the summer season and reflected in the surface of the large body of water; it makes for a striking picture. 

“You should not be walking alone.” he states with the finality of someone who is used to being obeyed, and given what you now know of his estate you don’t doubt that to be the case. Made the head of his family at an age too young to ever be appropriate, you didn’t envy the weight of his responsibilities.

“A habit, I’m afraid.” you sigh out, folding your hands in front of you to prevent yourself from fidgeting as you look back in the direction of the house, slightly startled to see the silhouette of your cousin through the trees in the distance.

It’s not conventional but as you turn back to the man in front of you, weighing the impropriety of what you want to say and bolting into the wilderness without another word, you decide there’s no harm in asking him to join you; not from him. 

“Would you allow me to accompany you, Miss Dune?” he says before you have the chance to open your mouth, “that way, you would not be alone.” 

Your eyes fly to his face, which gives nothing away of what he thinks or feels about this offer, serious as ever, but as you nod in acceptance his shoulders drop with a small exhale and the arm not holding onto the reins of his horse is lifted for you to take. 

Setting off together you ask if he often picks up waifs and strays; focused as you are on the woodland floor as you begin the gentle ascent you miss his sharp glance down at you. 

“Not often.” He answers softly, but there’s a hint of something akin to petulance in his tone that has you looking up at him questioningly. Up close you can see in his face that he thinks you’re making fun of him somehow, and you quickly assure him you’re happy for his company as you gently steer towards a better section of ground for his horse to follow. 

Every time you reached the top of this particular walk there was a moment where the ground fell away, the trees parted their branches and mountains seemed to rise up from the water. You always felt you would like to stay in that moment forever, and as you feel Mr Djarin pull to a stop you find yourself desperate to know what he’s thinking; his eyes rapidly scanning the landscape to take it all in.

He was quiet company but buried under a stern brow and stiff demeanour, there were glimpses of a passionate personality that was charming you quicker than your sister when she wanted something from you. You couldn’t deny to yourself that you were well and truly attracted to him, though you felt silly for it. You hated how it tugged at you internally, your chest beating harder when he looked at you, your stomach now fluttering when he spoke, it felt like a betrayal. Surely you were in charge of your own thoughts and feelings? Apparently not, because when he finally turns his head from the view to you at his side, you feel that familiar wave of prickling heat wash over you and it evolves into a singular, heavy throb in the very pit of your stomach when he slowly takes the hand you had wrapped around his arm, hesitating briefly to gauge your reaction before dropping a chaste kiss to the knuckles of your gloves.

“It’s beautiful.” 

********  
The noise of the gathering was prodding at the back of your skull, and this evening’s pale gold gown is starting to feel confining, the embroidered band that cinches the material tight just under your bust is like a vice. 

Your cousin, Toro Calican is sat beside you on a chaise in Mr Kuiil’s drawing room telling you of his sudden and desperate need to escape, to travel, to see the world and write grand poetry, and you can’t help but prod at his indulgent rambling by reminding him that just last week he’d declared to the room he would rather die than leave the glorious countryside where he’d never felt so at peace. 

On the day of his arrival you had been delighted by this newfound relative, on the surface he was charming. Cara was not so quick to welcome him with open arms and that first dinner felt like an interrogation as she asked him a myriad of questions, she was cautious about this new addition to your circle. He bore the scrutiny affably, good natured in his answers with a measure of self depreciation in his humour that aided his harmless persona. 

Your opinion had quickly soured upon his meeting Mr Kuiil where he had remained pleasant throughout the introduction, but afterward remarked to you that he was surprised that such a man should be such agreeable company. 

“Such a man?” You’d asked confused, without looking up from the keys you were currently fumbling with, a new piece of music propped on the rack, but you heard your sister pause in her pacing the room. 

“Well, yes! A merchant! I’m surprised your father pursued the acquaintance at all really, coming into all that wealth by trade.” He replies conspiratorially from his place on a plush loveseat, foot propped on your mother’s favourite decorative table, “I wonder how he did it… most likely a swindler to make that much.” You feel a flush of shame despite the man discussed not being present to hear his character judged, questioned and insulted by a stranger; it takes effort to not falter from your playing with your temper roaring under the surface of your skin 

“Mr Kuiil is an honourable man,” you say cooly, before Cara can say a word, “intelligent people likely realised that when purchasing from him and became loyal customers. To have built a business such as his from nothing is admirable.” With your eyes glued firmly to the keyboard, you feel your sister’s hands land on your shoulders just as the piece is coming to the end and after striking the final notes you gently place the cover down before taking one of her hands and swiveling off the stool to drag her out to the gardens.

Upon coming across him almost immediately after returning to the house he had declared that the gracious assessment of your friend had demonstrated an admirable kindness of heart that was a balm to his soul, before adding that he meant no offence and he hoped to continue to be guided by the wisdom of his fair cousin. You had dipped shortly in acceptance and an empty smile, if only to have the excuse to leave the room feeling patronised and strangely hunted as he went about pouring himself a port.

Now as he lounges here in the drawing room of the man he clearly disdained, you’re uncomfortable to have been an agent in exposing your friend to his empty flattery as Mr Kuiil had not hesitated to extend an invitation to your relative this evening.

You take a sip of tea, contemplating something stronger but thinking better of it with your head starting to truly ache. 

Across the room, Kuiil is showing Cara and Din a case of intricate knives he’d collected in his travels, but he finds himself distracted by Din’s distraction. They’d been friends a long time, and Kuiil felt almost paternal in his own gruff way but he was starting to feel like he’d missed a conversation or two with the boy. 

Looking at him now, it was almost funny, this wall of a man, slumped and still except for the movement of his hand as he twisted a signet ring on his smallest finger. He’d never known Din to fidget, even in extremes of emotion he was pointedly composed, and seeing him glancing regularly at your figure across the drawing room while his thumb pushed the silver band round, he felt it appropriate to have to have a heart-to-heart with his stoic would-be son.

“I really should rescue my sister…” Cara says reluctantly, breaking his chain of thought. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary in you sipping tea while the dubious boy beside you talks, he looks to her for clarification but Cara is shrewdly observing Din observing you. 

There’s a hint of a smirk as she continues, “she’s not too enamoured by our cousin’s determined compliments.” If the abrupt pause in the movement of his ring is anything to go by, he’s listening, “I’d say she’s about two poetic comparisons away from mischief so I should do my duty and spare our relative.”

“Djarin, we should have some music and you’ve seen these old things before while Miss Carasynthia here has not, would you make the request of her sister to play for us?” Kuiil interjects, snapping the case open and extending it towards Cara for closer inspection as Din’s brow furrows taking in the newly formed conspirators. “I have spoken.” the older man finishes, putting an end to any thought of arguing and gesturing for him to go.

Cara watches, smirk widening visibly as Mr Djarin obediently rises from his chair and for once she can see in his face a nervousness in the slight widening of his eyes as they flicker between his friend, her sweet sister and gratifyingly herself. Even if she didn’t already have an inkling that he was a good man from their conversations, his quiet and serious nature a hard barrier to see past if he didn’t allow it, she already knew she could trust in Mr Kuiil’s judgement. Watching Din Djarin cross the floor after a sharp tug at his waistcoat, Cara felt a small but undeniable stab of regret as the concept of letting her best friend, and one true confidante in their cold house go just became real. 

A shadow falls over you as Mr Calican pauses in his new plan to show you the lakes of Naboo long enough to take a swig of his drink and you’re relieved to see Colonel Arvala has arrived. 

Flicking the tails of his red coat out, he seats himself between you and your cousin on the chaise, turning briefly over his shoulder to acknowledge the other man before returning to you with a wicked grin. Leaning his elbow on the back of the chair, he creates an effective albeit unconventional barrier and though you shouldn’t encourage his behaviour, you can’t help the indulgent smile as you attempt to look disapproving when he delicately lifts his own drink for a sip, both brow and little finger raised.

As he’s placing his glass on the table, you vaguely see two blurry Mr Calicans rise behind him to find more receptive ears to talk in and you make a conscious effort to draw a full and steady breath.

“You’re looking peaked my dear,” Ignatius notes, lowering his head to inspect your face, grin slipping when he sees how glassy your eyes are. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, low enough to not draw attention but much like when someone asks if you’re ok when you’re about to cry, like it’s been given permission, your head suddenly feels fit to burst, your chest tightens and the room spins.

When your eyes refocus you can breathe a little easier but you’re suddenly desperate to loosen the stays under your gown and you need air.

“I’ve just arrived, is your father here tonight? I’ll take you home directly myself if he’s not present.” He says already looking around the room for the familiar figure, and when he can’t immediately see the man, your sister or your simpering relative through the moderate gathering of neighbours his thoughts turn to an attendant to fetch his own carriage and a doctor.

“Colonel I can practically hear you clucking, father left after dinner, he was to send the smaller carriage later,” you say sounding breathy and far away, “just help me outside, somewhere quiet for a moment?”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but you begin to stand and it puts an end to it as he scrambles to rise. 

“Can you walk?” He asks as he folds your hand into the crook of his arm and begins to usher you out of the room.

“I can walk, Mother Hen.” you respond with a shaky smile as the pair of you weave around people and furniture towards the hall, signalling to your sister to follow. She’s only seconds behind in reaching the corridor and the Colonel promptly returns to the party. Though he doesn’t mind being the object of ridiculous gossip, he would never wish for you to be a target of speculation and so he takes Cara’s place beside Mr Kuiil until a few minutes later she rejoins them. 

After helping you loosen the cords of your stays and smoothing your gown back in place over your shoulders, you asked your sister to return to her friends so that you could enjoy a few minutes alone to breathe by the open window in the small parlour you were currently sequestered in. Seeing that you were alright, she had left you with a promise to return in half an hour if you did not join them yourself. 

Propped on a window seat with your legs tucked under you the cool night air felt like it was blowing a fog from your brain, realising how bad you’d truly felt only when it had passed. Removing your gloves and screwing your eyes shut as you rub at your temples, you turn more fully to look out into the darkened garden. There are lanterns lit on some of the gravel paths in the grounds, but no moon to illuminate the grassy valley or surrounding mountain ranges beyond and the effect is hypnotic; warm, flickering flames floating in the darkness.

Relaxed by the view, you’re startled out of your dreamlike state when the door bursts open and whirling round you’re surprised to see an equally startled Mr Djarin halfway across the threshold. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll leave you be-” he blurts out with a jerky bow and turns almost clumsily to leave, but after a pause steps back towards you and seems almost hesitant as he tentatively continues, “are, are you alright?” 

Instinctively touching your bare hand to your shoulder to check you really did replace your gown correctly, you’re intensely aware that your stays are loosened underneath and feel yourself blush deeply. 

“I-I’m well, Mr Djarin. I needed some air, that’s all.” You reply, not quite able to meet his eyes, and you hurriedly unfold your legs when you remember you’re sat so casually, “I uh, I, would you like to join me?” you ask without truly thinking, but not finding it within yourself to regret being so forward. Not when you enjoyed walking with him, and not when his eyes lock on you and you feel that addictive warm prickle sweep across your skin again. “That way I wouldn’t be alone.”

At the repetition of his own words from walking together, he seems to shed his hesitance like water. Purposefully leaving the door open he strides across the room and lowers himself onto a plush loveseat, his dark jacket contrasting starkly with the pastel hues of the fabric and despite having walked by his side, it’s only now you truly see how physically imposing he is. Though not as tall as Ignatius, you’ve yet to see anyone who is, his broadness is curiously satisfying to look at; almost grounding. 

“You enjoy the works of Kenobi.” not a question, but a statement. His expression is blank as usual, impossible as a gauge for your response and he’s looking intently somewhere around your right ear. 

“You sound certain, Mr Djarin.” He’s correct, but you can’t think of ever mentioning it and you’re hoping for him to elaborate, to hear more of that low soothing voice.

“Our visit not too long ago, your sister was holding one of his books, holding it upside down. She took it from you, no? You had nothing in your hands, you’re always…occupied.” He sounds more hesitant towards the end of what must be one of the longest statements he’s every spoken in your presence, but you can’t contain a burst of amusement escaping you with a huff.

You remember the day he refers to, Cara sweeping in from the garden doors after hearing the approaching horses, and on her way past your sun-soaked window seat, much like the way you are positioned now, she’d swiped the book you were absorbed in and seated herself smugly just in time to look busy when the gentlemen were brought into the room.

“Perhaps I was feeling idle that day,” you can’t help the teasing tone in your voice as you lean forward minutely, “you’ve very keen observation skills, sir. Say the book was mine, and Cara is a reprehensible thief, how do you know I enjoy his writing?”

“The pages are worn but the book is…cared for.” He is now boring a hole in the ground, and though he’s still as stone you feel like he’s waiting for something, like a creature bracing for a strike, though not afraid.

“You’re right, he’s one of my favourites in fact.” You respond, feeling any surprise melt into a smile as you move to pull your gloves back on, “I feel that you are more an admirer of Skywalker though…” and now you’ve definitely surprised him. 

His eyes swing up and smoothly transfers his weight to lean an arm against the rest, you once again get the feeling of standing on a rope above a plunge. 

“Oh?” he prompts, going still once again, dark eyes molten in the sparse candlelight of the room. Stretching all ten fingers with the fabric back in place over your hands and arms before linking them tidily on your lap, you decide there’s no harm in telling him your thoughts with you both unconventionally sitting alone together; having walked together unsupervised.

“You may be quiet in company, Mr Djarin, but when you do speak…Skywalker is angry, impulsive, petulant-” you pause abruptly with a grin at the sight of his jaw ticking and brow furrowing, clearly not expecting the implied comparison, “but his well of emotion runs deep, he’s a driven romantic. I don’t think you’re angry, impulsive or petulant, but given how you talk of things you feel for, I suspect you run deep too, you just don’t advertise it to the world.” His brow had somewhat lightened as he considered you and he leans back in the chair. The buttons on his jacket look like dark liquid at this angle against the charcoal fabric and the effect is hyponic.

“You’re wrong, Miss Dune.” He eventually replies, just as you’re starting to feel an urge to squirm in the stretching silence. “I have a temper, I’m impulsive, my being in this room is proof of that, and Kuiil reminds me regularly that I’m petulant.” You’re taken aback by the confession, though he doesn’t sound angry and so you still the apologies that have sprung forward to sit on the edge of your tongue. He considers you a second longer, head tilted, “Kenobi is very dry-witted, unusual reading for a lady, a disciplinarian. I wonder what he says about you…” 

With a gentle tug at his cravat he turns his head to the side, as if listening, before raising himself from the chair and a small albeit very real tug at the corner of his mouth warms his features as he bows slightly. “ I should return.”

Somewhat blindsided by an expression that would be inconsequential on anyone else’s face you stand, bracing yourself on the frame of the window seat to avoid tipping over in your haste, the stiff boning at your front preventing the ability to bend even with the loosened back, and so you almost miss the hesitation returning to his posture as he stills in the doorway. “Will you play for us this evening?” 

“If you wish me to.” Is your somewhat breathy response, though fortunately this time it stems from the feeling of stepping off the rope holding you on the precipice rather than lack of air. You almost can’t decide which one is more frightening.

A little while later, acceptably laced back up and seated at the piano, you’re playing your way through a piece you’ve known forever so that you don’t have to concentrate much on the keys in front of you. The Colonel has been glued to your side since your return to the room, as if he thinks you’re going to crumple at any second. He’s currently hovering by your shoulder under the pretense of turning the music pages for you, and you accept his fussing only because you know it would be more infuriating endeavour to argue with him.

Lifting your eyes briefly from the page you’re not truly seeing, you can’t help seek out Mr Djarin. He’s sat with an older woman who had been introduced to you as Mrs Peli Motto, who is sipping tea as she listens whilst he himself is clutching a brandy glass with both hands around the bowl. 

You feel his eyes on you like a physical touch, and it’s jarring to feel so exposed in a room full of people. Shifting slightly on the bench in an attempt to ground yourself, ward off the prickle of awareness with the solid furniture below and the silk brushing bare skin, Colonel Arvala suddenly folds himself down beside you back to the keyboard and a single leg casually stretched out.

“Hell if Djarin could ever manage a single shred of subtlety…” he mutters with a sigh. Glancing sharply to him, the urge to prod his face like you were children again flairs strong.

“Colonel!” You hiss, unable to keep your eyes from drifting to the man on the sofa.

“Ah I’m sorry, my dear.” he says shifting round so his knee bumps your back and you continue to play without any further distractions until the end of the song. 

***********  
For the next two weeks, there’s a noted difference in Mr Djarin’s behaviour towards you. At gatherings around the neighbourhood, he no longer lingers at the windows or the edge of conversations, but instead lingers near you. 

Yesterday he had exhausted his social interaction for the day in a single sentence when he’d succinctly reserved the first dance at this evening’s ball, a large event unlike the town’s public assembly, at the estate of a powerful friend of your father’s. He’d spent the larger part of the afternoon sitting stiffly in silence and twisting the ring on his smallest finger, something you were now noting to be one of the few signs he was close to his version of nervous, before Colonel Arvala had approached with a face full of mischief, raking a hand through his dark silvery curls.

“Is the pleasure of your first dance available tomorrow, my dear?” he asked as you stood pouring tea from the set laid out on the table directly behind Mr Djarin’s seat. With his hands tucked behind his back, the Colonel looked the picture of innocence, but as Mr Djarin swung to his feet and rounded the furniture in a flash of movement his impish expression only grew.

“I’m afraid I’ve already claimed that honour, Arvala.” came the unexpected low, rough response from him. He doesn’t look at the Colonel when he speaks, instead he’s looking at you with his dark eyes a little wide, persuading you he’s almost as surprised as you are. When you confirm with your agreement the Colonel’s grin melted into something a little softer. 

“One later in the evening then, dearest.” he acknowledges, but his sincerity ends there as he smartly snags the tea you’d just prepared for yourself and wanders off again, no doubt to inform your sister as fast as humanly possible. Din Djarin had sat quietly by you the rest of the visit, a little closer than normal. 

Setting out by carriage in the morning, it was raining heavily with a low, grey sky and humidity that spoke of a storm approaching. Relieved to be in the smaller carriage with your sister while Mr Calican travelled with your parents ahead in the other, you were able to feel quietly excited for this evening. Cara had crept into your room last night to bully you, or ‘impart sisterly advice’ as she called it, and by the time she’d requested you never leave her in charge of the future Djarin children, for their sake as much as hers, you were blushing furiously and changed the conversation with a well aimed flick of a hair pin to her forehead. 

Jolted out of your recollection by a bump in the road, you were happy to spend the next few hours of travel reading to your sister and enjoying the passing scenery until your destination came into view in the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me @jura-moon on tumblr where I have more stories!

You couldn’t deny you’d taken extra care getting ready for this evening. Dressed in a gown of deep rust red, the wide neckline perched at the very edge of your shoulders and a short, boned bodice fit low on your bust. Cream tissue silk draped flatteringly across the top halves of your breasts, lifted generously by the stays underneath, and was secured by a jewelled brooch. It was rare you had an occasion to wear a dress such as this, and you felt like a painting as you examined the effect in a mirror of the room you had been allocated for the night. Your sister having not been present as you selected the components for the gown to be made, now entered the room to see the result and laughingly wondered aloud how much you really liked Mr Djarin if you were trying to kill the poor man.

“I chose perfectly then!” You decide, with one last sweeping glance of your pinned curls before joining your glowing sibling by the door. “Gold always did look beautiful on you, is this the fabric you ordered from Coruscant?” you note as you leave your room together arm in arm, referring to her own gown and as you made your way through the sprawling corridors she told you of how she’d managed to convince Ignatius Arvala to be her errand boy on his last trip. 

Joining your family in the foyer, you’re escorted through to the grand ballroom together where you greet the host family before moving off to your preferred amusements. Your parents doing their required rounds among their acquaintances, while you and Cara begin to circle the room in search of drinks and a familiar face or two. 

With your back to him, it’s a pleasant surprise when Mr Djarin finds you. Announcing his presence by addressing you both by name, you turn to greet him and can practically feel Cara’s grin as she also witnesses his expression completely transform. Deep brown eyes widen as they quickly and instinctively sweep your form, his mouth slightly parted, you’re delighted by the reaction, especially when after a split second he clears his throat remembering his manners enough to make the usual polite enquiries and his voice is a little hoarser than usual. Taking pity, Cara decides to level the playing field.

“Mr Djarin, I think my sister is feeling out of sorts today,” she blithely comments before you can get a word out, and his eyes return to you sharply as if such a thing could be seen on your face. “She read a work of Skywalker the entire journey here, his writing is not her usual travel companion, something must have given her a taste for romance…” You were going to strangle her. She had clearly heard at least part of your conversation with him a couple of weeks ago, and you’re going to strangle her. 

Her trouble stirred, she raised her hand in greeting someone among the crowds and with a sweep of shimmering gold excused herself as you feel a blush flare on your cheeks.

“You knew she was outside that evening.” You deduce, thinking of how he had turned his head to listen before he left.

“I did.” He confirms, and he surprises you by continuing, “had it been anyone else approaching, I would have reacted sooner.” You’re unable to resist a retort but you’re interrupted by movement from people nearby, and Mr Djarin reaches out to pull you forward by the elbow to avoid being jostled. You’re acutely aware of the size of his hand as it trails down the back of your forearm when he lets go and completes the movement by encircling your wrist gently, using it to bring you fully to his side and folding your hand into the crook of his arm. 

Tucked into his side the crowd is noticeably less oppressive as his larger frame easily parts a path, and it’s not long until he is flagged down by passersby as you make your way through the room. You had met some of them before, others were strangers, but all were conspicuously curious about your place on his arm. 

Although still not by any means talkative, his quietness seemed more natural to him than the silence of your first meetings, and when he looked down at you he held your gaze rather than sliding away.

As Mr Djarin listens to the company in front of you, your own gaze is drawn to your approaching cousin who is speaking rapidly to a man you’ve never seen before. 

“Cousin!” He exclaims drawing up to your group, immediately bringing conversation to a halt. “Have you lost your sister?” He whispers conspiratorially, nodding towards the man at your side and too loud to be for your ears only. What’s worse, is the hand he places casually on the bare skin of your shoulder blade and you flinch bodily at the unfamiliar touch even if you’re spared somewhat by the material of his glove.

“No indeed.” You reply as neutrally as possible despite the thinly veiled insult, and your grip tightens momentarily on Mr Djarin’s arm as his acquaintances move on politely.

“May I introduce my fair cousin to you Lord Gideon? And uh, my friend Din Djarin.” He says with a bravado and familiarity that makes your face burn as you dip into a curtsy to greet the older gentleman. You feel Mr Djarin bow too and when you risk a glance, you see his face has slipped back into the blank expression you’d seen when he’d first arrived in your town. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dune. And you Din Djarin, I’ve heard excellent things about your skill at hunting.” he says, his eyes unblinking as he looks at each of you steadily.

“And you, Lord Gideon.” you reply when it’s clear Mr Djarin is going to remain silent, and fortunately your ambitious cousin seems predisposed to lead the conversation. 

“Your home is Alderaan is it not? Beautiful woods surround that house…” Gideon once again addresses you, cutting off Mr Calican who immediately snaps his mouth shut, and you easily agree with him. He sounds thoughtful as he continues with a cordial smile, “maybe I will see them in person one day. Miss Dune, perhaps I can hear more from you during a dance this evening.” 

If you thought he was standing stiffly before, Mr Djarin goes rigid now under the hand you have on his arm, and you feel a trickle of amusement that he’s so quick to rile. 

You know you must agree, to refuse would not only ensure you couldn’t stand up with anyone else this evening but you’d also insult a nobleman and you weren’t in the market for sparking gossip.

“Of course. My third dance is free.” you say with what you hope is a natural smile and you’re saved from saying more when the man beside you begins to shift.

“And now you’ll excuse us.” He says evenly with a nod of his head before guiding you away. He doesn’t speak again until a few minutes later after you’ve taken your places in the set for the first dance of the evening. 

“Kuiil mentioned that you have been mysteriously absent for a number of his visits,” he eventually mentions after a few steps while contemplating the floor, “you have a talent for hiding, or so Miss Dune says.” 

“Oh not hiding! No, I’ve been outdoors enjoying the last of this summer weather, not avoiding him if that’s what he’s thinking.” As you place your hand on his in the next steps, “a talent for hiding…” you consider aloud, “I wonder if she was thinking of the time I fell asleep under a table in the library and couldn’t be found for hours.” His head tilts sharply, as if picturing you as you are now curled under a table and you laughingly continue, “or maybe the day our governess had me recite Nabooian poetry with the book on my head until I cried and fled to the orchard. I climbed a tree and stayed there until dark. I was not allowed outside for a month after I handed myself in!”

His eyes crease, warming his entire expression as he realises you’re talking of childhood as the dance draws you apart to move along the set.

“Your sister never found you if you were to hide?” He asks, a lilt of amusement colouring his low voice. 

“Rarely.” You grin, remembering Cara’s frustration, “she had the upper hand at running though, she could outrun the stableboy by the time she was nine, and he could run to town on foot in under fifteen minutes.” 

“I was fond of hide and seek as a child,” he says, surprising you with the casual disclosure, “I wonder if you could have hidden from me…”

“A few more brandies in this crowd and you might be able to convince the master of ceremonies it’s a wonderful idea to play.” His low chuckle delights you more than you’d care to admit, even to yourself, and as the dance continues you are able to learn a little more about Din Djarin. 

He’s fond of shooting, but not of riding though he accepts its necessity and he has never been to the theatre, though Kuiil calls him a new word for uncultured every time it comes up in conversation. 

“Not a purposeful avoidance,” he assures at your almost scandalised expression, “when I was younger, my time was spent learning my responsibilities, and in time it got lost among other occupations.” In the time it takes for you to move around another lady to rejoin him further up the set, he seems to have closed his expression off again, “perhaps you can choose my first performance, if it pleases you.” 

The sweetness of the sentiment has you clasp the hand supporting yours at shoulder height a little tighter so that he’s definitely listening to you when you agree.

“Something with a happy ending, I think…” 

By the time he guides you off the floor towards the overflowing refreshments table, you’re feeling flushed, happy and dare you admit to yourself hopeful? 

From what you had perceived of Mr Djarin from Mr Kuiil, the company you had interacted with this evening so far and your own observations, he was well attached to his bachelor status and your presence had certainly drawn a few curious looks. This was likely to grow in number when he requested a second dance later in the evening, a fairly public declaration of interest that you happily, if a little shyly accepted.

Din watched as you left his side with the permanently grinning Arvala, how you and your sister tolerated the man was beyond him. Though he would now admit to himself that after several weeks within the same social circle he couldn’t quite hate him like he had wanted to on arrival, though his infuriating humour sometimes made it a close call.

He also hadn’t anticipated you. In coming to inspect his friend’s new home and enjoy a few weeks of leisure, he had not expected the hot stab of attraction upon first entering the assembly that first evening. Entering the room the Colonel had stood out as usual, literally, and he’d been more than a little surprised to see him. Concluding that in a room this busy it would be easy to avoid an unpleasant meeting, he’d begun to look away until he glimpsed the woman he was dancing with, and couldn’t help lingering a moment. 

Kuiil must have noticed his preoccupation, however brief, because it wasn’t long before he was requesting their old friend Greef Karga introduce him to the Colonel who was still in the company of the woman, and Din was being dragged along for the ride. 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget the image of first meeting you out of his head for as long as he lives, delicately wrapped in pale cloth and pearls and that singular curl of hair caressing your neck as it fell while you greeted them; it had made his hand twitch. 

Din had been content at first to simply watch you, accepting the physical attraction from a distance while enjoying the sweetness of your conversation through others. He was known to be intimidating, and blunt when he deigned to speak and he didn’t store much hope these were qualities you would appreciate in further acquaintance given your clear adoration of a certain loud-mouthed officer and playful back-and-forth with your sister. He was to find himself surprised by your acceptance of it, conversing with him naturally, pleasantly, and not appearing put off by his stunted replies if he gave one. The day he found you alone in the woods walking, he had been less bewildered by your casual disregard for the need of a walking companion than his sudden flare of protectiveness; that morning alone in your company had confirmed that he would be a fool to ignore his instincts.

Looking across at you now, once again dancing with Arvala, he feels the returning urge to touch. Your gown this evening was clearly put on this planet to test him, that ridiculously thin silk draped across your décolletage a sirens call. 

“You are aware that I’m duty bound to threaten you appropriately, I’m sure.” Cara’s drawl from his side shakes him from his contemplation. 

“At your leisure, Miss Dune.” he replies dryly, handing her his own untouched glass of brandy with a casual nod. 

“You have nothing to fear from Ignatius where my sister is concerned…” she says after a pause to enjoy a healthy measure from the glass, watching his expression closely, “you knew him before your introduction from Karga.”

“Yes and I cannot be friendlier with him than I am now, no matter her wishes. This is my way.” She nods thoughtfully and thankfully chooses not to pursue the matter further, instead she turns to join him in watching the dance progress.

“Can I ask-” she pauses prompting him to turn his attention, unused to Cara being unable to say what was on her mind throughout their acquaintance, taking a breath she visibly steels herself, “you’ll tell me? I mean, you’ll let me know when I can expect to see her go?” 

Din reels at the request, his jaw ticking and eyes growing serious as he processes her unspoken fear, and with a brief glance back to you dancing he wills himself to sound reassuring rather than gruff when he responds.

“I won’t hide my intentions from you, I wish to court her. I will ask her, and then go to your father if she accepts, but perhaps my plans should change…” he drifts off thoughtfully and he feels himself struggle to keep his face serious at her panicked expression. “Perhaps I will come to you before your father for your blessing.” Cara visibly deflates and while she remains speechless he can’t help but take advantage of the lightness he feels in disclosing his plans, if not quite his feelings, to another person. Kuiil suspected, but had known better than to ask and so his infatuation had remained simmering in silence just below the surface.

“Should I be offended you’d think I would retract my feelings so easily?” he asks, only half joking, brown eyes widening and he’s relieved to see her smile returning as she pacifies him with a raised hand while she downs the rest of her hijacked brandy. 

“You’ve clearly not gone against her in an argument, Djarin.” She huffs out with a laugh, clasping her gloved hands together around the bowl of the glass. “You’ll get it, my approval, when you ask…” her face sincere as she looks out among the dancers.

“And you will not be losing her.” He grumbles, gruffness seeping back into his voice, heart-to-hearts not being a regular occurance in his experience. “Join me for the next?” he offers with an arm extended.

“Who could say no to family?” She replies, slapping her hand down on his forearm to be led out to join the line of women readying for the next set.

Standing across from Lord Gideon you feel unusually shy under his unwavering scrutiny, his carefully pleasant expression unreadable as you try not to fidget with your gloves and instead look back with a steady, polite smile. 

Falling into the steps easily you wait for your partner to begin conversation as his station of nobility dictates, and it’s not long until he is making enquiries about your father, who he apparently had not seen in many years. Making the appropriate response of your father being well he steps forward to take your hand and looks further down the set.

“And Carasynthia, still a force of nature I will presume?” he asks without any indicator of real humour, his grip overbearing as his thumb locks over your fingers. 

“I could not wish for a better sister.” You respond, feeling his question to be bordering on rude coming from a stranger, and you turn your own attention towards her dancing with Mr Djarin.

“Forgive my crassness. I simply remember a child with an excellent arm, her ability to utilise her embroidery hoop as a throwing weapon was impressive, no doubt your older brother’s influence…” His mild tone doing little to assure you this was a humorous anecdote, but you are also unable to discard the notion that this was just the character of a man with a degree of power, wealth and influence you are rarely exposed to, even with your family’s well off position. 

“Cara has never been one to be influenced, not least by our brother.” Is out of your mouth before you can stop it, and the grip across your fingers tighten as his eyes bore into you. 

“And you, Miss Dune,” he says consideringly, “I wonder what your weapon of choice would have been as a youth.”

“I likely would not have been in the room.” You quietly clear your throat and look again towards Mr Djarin, his sharp profile reassuring even before you notice he’s got his eye on you. By this point your hand has a residual ache whenever Gideon releases you, and you wonder if he knows his own strength as you turn to move along the dance, discreetly flexing it at your side.

Din is unable to keep himself from looking across to you whenever possible, and though he tells himself that it’s driven primarily by concern over the sudden interest Lord Gideon has taken, he cannot deny to himself that he also just wants to look at you. He feels decidedly out of his depth at your near constant presence in his thoughts and tonight, dressed in soft fabrics and glowing in candlelight, you are particularly distracting. 

As sole master of his estate in Mandalore Din had learned discipline at a young age, but as Kuiil enjoyed reminding him, his ability to withhold his emotions often made him appear aloof, though his friend’s exact term after a port or two was ‘unfriendly’. He had never dwelled much on how others perceived him, never actively sought to please people, but upon meeting someone he finds himself wishing to please Din felt conscious that most people were intimidated rather than charmed by his presence. . 

Watching you now, he was reassured in the least satisfying way that he did not intimidate you at least, feeling his jaw tick at the quiet signs of your discomfort; the stiffness in your shoulders and smiles empty of any real mirth. Any satisfaction he might have felt confirming that the way you blushed when he himself moved close, or writhed when his gloves accidentally brushed bare skin was borne from a mutual attraction, rather than repulsion, was dampened by it stemming from witnessing the latter in your obligation to accept a partner you did not care for. 

Noticing his obvious distraction, Cara followed his moody gaze towards the couple and could not find it within herself to be amused. 

“He had a terrible influence on our father many years ago,” she notes, feeling some levity return at the hint of colour flushing his ears upon being caught staring like a schoolboy. “My sister can handle a conversation with a warmongering nobleman, Mr Djarin, women learn early to maneuver in the social battlefield even when the advantages are not in their favour.” 

With a nod to her in acknowledgement, he moves down the set once again but Cara can practically see the gears ticking in his head.

“She is not simply pacifying you when you’re together in company, don’t mistake me.” She says bluntly, and secretly a small, hidden part of him is relieved that reactive dark thought can be put to rest, but she is not completely correct in her train of thought either.

“It’s just the first time a lady has said to my face that they only agreed to dance with me in order to not forfeit the rest of their night…” he says smoothly, brow still furrowed and eyes fixed ahead but he catches the roll of her eyes to the ceiling before she slides her hand from the proper position under his palm to slap it indelicately back over his, surprising him when he finds his hand unable to move in her grip when he automatically attempts to shift to the correct position.

“To your face, indeed.” Cara says, her wicked smile almost infectious enough to make his mouth twitch. They remain that way until the dance comes to a close, keeping his hand steadily where it is under hers, and he feels satisfied knowing that his potential sister-in-law feels confident enough in their budding friendship to speak so frankly with him. 

By the time Lord Gideon is escorting you away from the space allocated for dancing, you’re looking forward to feeling your shoulders drop from what feels like the height of your ears. While he had been perfectly civil, some might even say pleasant as you discussed your respective homes, places of interest in Coruscant and the beauty of this evening’s elegant surroundings, you felt everything you told him of yourself he was merely confirming, rather than asking. His manner assured and direct, so unlike Mr Djarin’s endearingly honest bluntness made you wary of his singling you out this evening, and you felt relieved you were likely to not be in company with him again soon.

Curtsying in farewell when you reach your sister, Lord Gideon curtly acknowledges her before turning heel and disappearing into the crowd. When he is finally out of sight you take a deep breath and look meaningfully at Cara, grasping her extended hands like a lifeline.

“Please tell me you didn’t eat him alive, Cara, I quite liked him…” you say with a light shake to her arms, and she tugs you in so that you can watch the sea of silk and feathers side by side. 

“Just a nibble, sweet sister, you’ll be relieved to know i’ve decided he’s not completely boring.” she sighs and you lean in close as you begin to tell her of your half hour with Lord Gideon. You’re relieved when she reassures you that a man of his status had likely been briefed by his butler on the guests present this evening, those he wished to stay civil with or, as you keep to yourself, those required to pay their respects to him. 

Mr Djarin rejoins you both soon after, handing each of you a delicate crystal cup filled with an amber liquid that filled the air with the heady aroma of honey and spices, and you’re delighted when his large hand lingers over your gloved fingers, his warm brown eyes steady and intense as they gauge your reaction before he withdraws to your other side. Cara thanks him with a nod before pointedly turning away to speak to someone nearby and you take a sip from your glass in an attempt to hold on to that addictive prickle this man now regularly sets alight on your skin, your eyes flutter as the sweet liquid dances across your tongue and leaves a pleasant warmth in its wake. 

Turning to thank him, you find he’s still watching you closely and with a sweep over his handsome features you see that the ends of his sideburns and hair have curled slightly in the heat of the room; it’s disarmingly charming. The lightly ruffled look suits him and you’re almost brave enough to voice it, but any words die on your lips as he steps closer. You feel the barely there pressure of his hand ghost across the fabric just under the high empire waistline at your back, the sensation dulled by the fashionably loose fabric and the thin layers underneath, but enough to prompt you to turn further into him as he quietly asks if you’d accompany him to the tables outside. 

“Of course.” You readily accept with a smile, turning briefly to tap your sister’s elbow to point to where you can be found before making your way through the ballroom together. Upon reaching the doors you feel almost dreamlike as the marble floor gives way to plush rugs laid generously over the fine gravel of the patio filled with small, candlelit tables and lit with torches and light from the windows of the house. Tea and coffee are being served, while the seated guests enjoy the rapidly darkening views of the gardens in the humid evening air. Seeing you to a seat at the edge of the patio he remains standing at your side until you’re settled and look up at him expectantly. He seems to startle somewhat and collects himself with a tug to his ivory waistcoat, backing stiffly away towards his own chair and bumping his hip against the table in the process. 

“Are you alright, Mr Djarin?” you ask, eyebrow raised and making a poor attempt to hide your amusement as he lowers himself with little attention to the tails of his dark jacket folding haphazardly underneath him. 

“Perfectly.” He replies, voice gruff, and he leans forward to place an arm on the rest as a server comes forward with teaware. Choosing coffee, you take a moment to look up at the sky as your drink is poured from an ornate silver pot and Mr Djarin asks for the same. It’s getting steadily darker, the late summer evening not clinging to light quite so long as previous weeks and the sky is still blanketed uniformly with clouds, but the humidity allows for you to sit outside comfortably and the rain that had followed your journey had yet to return. 

Returning your attention to the man across from you, he’s accepted a silver pot of sugar and is ferrying multiple cubes across to his cup. With his gloves now removed his signet ring glints with the movement, and for the first time you can see that there is an insignia embossed into the silver. 

“It’s my family crest…” he says, noticing your curious gaze and angling his hand for you to have a closer look. You can now see that it’s a mudhorn - a rare creature, possibly even extinct, and never native to your homeland or his as far as you were aware.

“I was making a note of your preference for sugar,” you begin, smiling as you lean forward slightly to inspect the piece of jewellery, “but now i’m more curious as to how a mudhorn became the symbol of your family.” His eyes dart momentarily back to his cup, the sharp planes of his face cast in dramatic shadows from the candle between you as his stiff posture seems to relax minutely with a huff of a laugh. 

“I have a partiality for sweet things…” he says softly as he languidly leans his broad torso back to rest against the back of the chair, his ring hand on the table sliding back along the surface to pick up his cup. You feel your cheeks heat like clockwork under his unwavering gaze and the close, warm air of the evening is suddenly stifling. Quietly he begins to tell you a little more of his family and his home than you’d heard previously, and you are surprised to learn he does not live alone, though he does not have any near relations. Mrs Motto, the friendly, albeit no nonsense woman you had met on a handful of occasions as a member of the party staying with Mr Kuiil was a widow, and you now learned that she held the position as housekeeper of sorts for Mr Djarin. 

“Though I took well to running an estate, I don’t have much flair for running my household, Miss Dune. Though I feel it right you know that Mrs Motto’s main role was originally to look after-” he pauses when splashes of rain land heavily on the table, and you both look up with the first flash of lightning. He’s out of his seat instantly and rounding the table to assist you out of your own before most other guests have finished their cries of alarm at the change in weather. From your position at the edge of the patio you can see the other guests and servants rushing to gather themselves and make their way indoors, but you’re loath to join them and the crowds so soon. It seems Mr Djarin shares the sentiment, as he pauses in his motion to guide you swiftly indoors and is instead looking off to the side where a gravel path leads towards the large, ornate glasshouse attached to the main building. Dark and empty of guests, you note it would provide shelter and a place to continue your conversation in peace and quiet, though it would come with the risk of being found alone with a man who you were neither married or even engaged to.

“Only a boor would consider the scheme that just entered my head…” he rasps out as if scolding himself, stepping firmly towards the house with your arm secured in his before you can contradict his self deprecating notion. Walking swiftly towards the warm light spilling from the doors, his pace slowed to match yours, you know it is the right decision to rejoin the ball, but you can’t help but be concerned over the scowl that has darkened his handsome face.

“Then we both shared a moment of insanity.” You say gently with a gentle squeeze of his arm as your spare hand lifts your skirt from the rugs now beginning to soak up water. He brings you both to an abrupt halt a few steps from the doors, just beyond the wide triangle of light spilling out onto the ground. Even in the shadow you can see droplets running across his tanned skin, his pale cravat beginning to darken with moisture, reminding you that the flimsy material pinned across your decolletage must be indecently translucent by now, and the hand previously holding your skirt up flies to the jeweled pin between your breasts instinctively as if to make sure it was still present. Dropping your hand when you see he’s followed the movement, his expression is unlike any you’ve seen before, it makes your stomach flip pleasantly and your wide eyes dart around his face unable to hold this particular gaze for long. His eyes are dark as he leans close so that you’re almost face to face, uncaring of the rain now beginning to come down in earnest as the arm supporting yours locks you in place. 

“I would not have you bound to me under such circumstances, under duress, if we were found.” He says firmly as he reaches for your other hand before lowering his head to press a kiss to your gloved knuckles much like he had on that fateful first walk that felt a lifetime ago. “I would rather be your choice.” He holds you there steadily for a moment to allow his words sink in before ushering you inside without further delay. 

Throughout the rest of the evening Mr Djarin is notably at your side in place of your sister, who happily retreats to the card tables, and your second dance with him as good as declares his interest to the entire room. You feel conscious of the increase in appraising looks and those wishing to know you, be known to you when speaking with him, and it truly begins to dawn on you the regard this quiet man holds beyond your neighbourhood’s gatherings. Him being a topic of discussion this evening is confirmed when he returns you to your family towards the end of the evening, and guests are beginning to summon their coaches or retire to rooms if staying the night. As you begin to slide your gloved hand from his arm to make your farewells, he tenses to prevent the movement as your father steps forward from your family that has gathered in the grand marble foyer. 

“I hear you are an acceptable hunter, Djarin.” He echoes the sentiment Lord Gideon had voiced earlier without ceremony, and is acknowledged with a brief bow from the man who still has you tucked into his side. Unable to wring your hands or fidget in anxiety over this inevitable interaction, your father not being known for his friendliness, you look between them with a knot forming in your stomach. “Very well, then I invite you to shoot with me in two days time at Alderaan if you would oblige me.” Given his antisocial nature you’re almost proud of your father’s attempt to sound welcoming, especially as you can practically feel the eyes and ears of those trickling from the ballroom observing the exchange.

“In two days then, Mr Dune.” Mr Djarin replies in agreement with another short bow, he then tilts his head towards you, brown eyes openly searching yours as he continues to address your father, “May I request an audience with your daughter on our return?” He does not blink until he sees the small, shy smile light your face, assuring him you were not against his request, he was not mistaken, then turns to receive the permission very few would be in a position to deny him. 

“Very well.” Your father confirms, turning away and jerking his own arm out for you in a clear signal that it’s time to leave. Your skin is on fire in excitement as you slowly disengage from Mr Djarin to curtsy in farewell, you’re aware that he’s watching you intently and when he bows in return it is lower and slower than you’ve seen him offer any other. Stepping away from him and taking the offered arm waiting impatiently for you, your family then begin to make their way up the grand staircase together. The ascent feels like it takes an age and towards the top you can’t help but look back one last time, the thrill of his intense expression racing down your spine, searing into your memory - a moment suspended, to tide you over the next two days of waiting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me @jura-moon on tumblr where I have more stories!
> 
> Note: A folly is essentially a decorative building or structure

The morning of Mr Djarin’s outing with your father arrives in a deluge of rain. Your spine is rigid at the breakfast table as Mr Calican chews from a roll as he talks at your father.

“Not to worry sir, he might be the austere sort but from the way he traipses after my young cousin here, he’s likely besotted enough to come regardless of a little rain and you’ll be spared his silent company!” Pausing just long enough to take a wet draw from his teacup, he does not see your father cease his meticulous dissection of his breakfast to lay down his utensils and give his full attention. “There was a time I thought him to be worthy of learning from, a man of potential! But I am exceedingly glad my patron Lord Gideon advised against it, he believed Djarin too old fashioned for the scheme and recommended I approach the Shands instead. Ruthless in business, the Shands…” 

Chewing thoughtfully he drops his knife to place a hand on his heart as he then seems to remember you are present at the table, “I am sure he will be generous to you, fair cousin, you will want for nothing! Perhaps you will even be able to teach me some Mandalorian customs the next time we meet.” His boyish face is the epitome of sincerity as he raises his teacup to you before taking another swig and digging back into his food. 

Your mind is void of any suitable response as you struggle to keep your jaw from dropping open and you glance, panicked, to your sister sitting next to him for reassurance. Stabbing violently into her eggs Cara is balefully watching him from the corner of her eye, and your panic dulls into mild amusement while you reach quietly for your own tea. 

“If Mr Djarin makes an offer to my youngest, I will be glad of a quiet son-in-law.” Your father states with a cold finality that makes you believe this mortifying conversation is over as he picks up his utensils again. “Lord Gideon does you credit as a patron my boy, but do not be blind to the advantage of an alliance with a great house of Mandalore.” 

The word alliance rings round your head, and you find yourself glancing guiltily towards your mother at the other end of the table, though the guilt does not come from an honest place. Last night she had come to your room and in cold, clinical terms instructed you on the details she expected you to carry out for today - what to wear, your hair, even the jewels chosen with the aim to draw Din Djarin’s eye.

“The yellow muslin,” she had said with a dismissive wave towards the closet that held your gowns as a maid hurried in behind her, “hair finished high, try and get those curls under control, find the matching ribbon…” the poor girl scrambling through the variety of gowns in front of her was nodding hastily with each quickfire instruction, and your excitement at the prospect of seeing Mr Djarin tomorrow was somewhat shaken by her following instructions to you. “The gown will show off your youth, and I shall have someone bring Carasynthia’s citrine set to do the rest, it will sit at the right height…” her eyes scan you quickly, “and for goodness sake girl, wear your short stays, and wear them tight. This is your chance to secure a better husband than I’d imagined for either of you, an alliance to the Djarin boy will ensure you live more than comfortably. And your sister for that matter, if she carries on doing whatever she pleases and you play this right.” With that she was gone without another word in a whirl of fashionable skirt and perfume, leaving you feeling more than a little dazed. The rustle of fabric snaps you to attention, and it’s then you remember the yellow muslin she was referring to as it’s pulled from the closet. You haven’t worn it in years, a girlish gown that would certainly look youthful on you now, complete with exposed ankles and a bodice that you would generously fill even with one of your grandmother’s old fashioned corsets attempting to contain you. 

Dismissing the maid, gently assuring her you’d take all responsibility for tomorrow’s outfit, you had stripped your nightgown to don the yellow scandal-in-waiting, and scurried to Cara’s room, giggling the entire way to show her mother’s grand scheme. 

Dressed as you were now, in ivory muslin and pearls, the guilt of disobeying her was present as a ghost of your upbringing rather than feeling truly sorry for it. If Mr Djarin wanted to ask for your hand, be it because he too felt in danger of falling in love or simply for the practical duty to carry on his family, you would prefer to lay the foundations of any future in honesty than artfulness. 

Finishing breakfast in determined silence, you can’t help but be hopeful he felt as you did. Those raw, intense looks, the way he seems to soften when you laugh at his gruff sense of humour or hold a little tighter to his arm did not speak of being motivated by duty. 

“I would rather be your choice.” he had said. 

Curled in a window seat in the parlour, you attempt to focus on the needlework in front of you as Cara writes a letter. The scratch of quill on paper occasionally pausing as she contemplated her next words, or glanced at you with an expression that bordered on pity enough for it to annoy you even if you weren’t looking. 

You were disappointed that the rain would keep Mr Djarin away today, of course, but it could not rain forever and perhaps if the afternoon brought milder weather Mr Kuiil and Mr Djarin would both be able to visit - they could even be invited to stay for supper. 

With another pause in Cara’s writing you slap the embroidery hoop down in your lap and meet her gaze. 

“Cara if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m fetching your mourning clothes.” You say, remaining serious despite your urge to laugh at her scrunched nose and ink smudged fingers. 

“I’ve watched you moon over tall, dark and brooding for weeks without being allowed to do much to show him, sweet one. I’m more concerned for him, he must be going mad with uncertainty!” She replies scanning her page at arms length before setting it down to dry. 

“If he-” you pause, suddenly shy at the prospect of voicing your thoughts even to a most beloved sister, with a deep breath you try again, “if he planned to ask me to marry him today Cara, then I-” why are you so tongue tied? You planned to say yes to this man, you know it, she knows it, so why is it suddenly so hard to say your thoughts aloud? 

“If Mr Djarin had planned to ask me today, I would have said yes. I will say yes to him if he ever asks. But Cara, if I say yes everything changes…” Looking down into your lap, you hope your sister can hear the things you’ve left unsaid. If you were to become Mrs Djarin, there was a whole world of responsibilities you weren’t sure if you were ready for - you would no longer be the youngest Dune, but the wife of an influential gentleman with duties that extended across an entire estate and into society. The excitement of this gentleman’s intentions towards you were at war with the prospect of entering an entirely new life. 

Crossing the space between you, Cara folded herself into the window seat to sit facing you as you used to as girls, feet tucked in each other’s laps as you told stories and ate sweet treats pilfered from sneaking voyages to the kitchens.

“I was worried,” she admits after she’s settled, “I agree with Ignatius, he’s not exactly subtle, and when I could see you were also attracted to him…it’s the first time I’ve considered the fact you will not always be at my side.” She pats and tugs at the thick band woven into her curled updo, seeming to need a minute to consider her next words.

“He’s a good man.” She finally declares decisively, her face settling into a small smile. “The night of the ball he told me I would not lose you, those are not the reassurances of someone unfeeling. I believe he will make you happy, and any worries you have? You will handle them, together, and I will always be your sister no matter your last name, you will always have me too.” It’s rare Cara is so vocally sentimental, and her firm reassurances sooth your nerves enough that you’re now able to feel the extent of your disappointment in your audience with Mr Djarin being delayed. 

Letting your sister return to her letters, you attempt once again to focus on the embroidery in front of you, managing to fall into the calming, repetitive motion of stitching until sunshine breaks through the low clouds and the rain ceases. Deciding that a walk around the garden will settle your mind, you swing out of your comfortable position and with a quick straighten of your skirt scurry upstairs for a spencer jacket and gloves.

Wandering the gravel paths a little while later the air is crisp on your face, fresh from the rain, and now you’re alone you finally allow your mind to return to private thoughts; the way his lips had felt on the back of your hand. You wonder how it would feel without the barrier of silk between you, idly brushing fingers across that same spot in an attempt to mimic the feeling through the thin leather of the outdoor gloves you now wear. What would that same pressure feel like on your own lips?

You lose track of how long you’re out there, retracing familiar paths until a light shower prompts you to make your way to the folly for cover. Atop a slope and backed by lush trees and greenery, the small domed structure was a picturesque spot and was often the subject of your painting lessons as a child. You remember sulkily declaring yourself sick of the sight of it by the time your lessons had come to an end but now stepping up onto its smooth, well kept stone floor you feel a surge of affection for the place.

Leaning on a pillar, you watch as the late summer rainstorm transforms the landscape. Everything green seems to suck the colour from the rapidly greying sky, while the grass and trees around you appear to almost glow, saturated in the strange light. Further out, the mountains that surround your home are barely visible through the clouds, and for the first time in years you almost wish for a brush and paper.

Lulled by the sound and sight of the rain, you do not notice the approaching figure until he is almost upon you. The deliberate crunch of gravel before Mr Djarin steps up into the folly from the side makes your stomach jump violently in fright. He bows quickly, eyes never leaving yours, before approaching slowly.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you.” His gentle tone soothing as he takes in your wide eyes, before sliding down to the hand you have clutched to your pounding heart as if to contain it.

“Your reputation as a hunter precedes you, Mr Djarin. I did not hear you approach…” You reply with a faint laugh, taking in his appearance after two days of absence. With your head still full of daydreams you’re woefully unprepared for this interaction, and you’re nervous that his penetrating gaze will somehow see all the thoughts whirling around in your mind unchecked. You wonder what he’d think of your sudden urge to twist the wetly curled ends of his hair round your fingers, or swipe away the droplets clinging to the shoulders of his finely tailored greatcoat. Would he feel as broad and solid as he looks? 

“You should not be walking alone…” He murmurs, his large hand encased in riding leather snagging your wrist as you move to lower your arm to your side. Sliding down the back of your hand to cup your pliant fingers, he steps back and draws you with him further under cover.

“You’re here, are you not?” you reply, biting at your lip at his unimpressed scowl and inwardly glad he remembers that morning as clearly as you do. Gently tugging your hand, he nods to the small stone bench behind you and you seat yourself gingerly, the thin layers of your gown not much protection against the cold surface. 

“I called at the house, they told me you had been out here some time,” he says as he strips his gloves in two sharp movements before transferring them to his pocket, after a moment’s pause he slowly lowers himself onto the space next to you and you watch with some amusement as he settles in stiffly. Spine rigid and with a hand on each thigh, he looks a man more ready for battle than conversation as he stares ahead at the blurry landscape. 

“I had planned to return to the house before the rain returned, but it caught me…” you admit, joining him in looking out, “I hope you did not risk your wellbeing by riding in this weather, sir, that road can be treacherous on the best of days.” 

Out of the corner of your eye you see his head swivel towards you before you feel his entire body shift to follow, the movement is unhurried, a languorous shift that seems to curl him around you whilst remaining at a mostly respectable distance. 

“My wellbeing?” He sounds surprised, “the biggest danger to me today has been Kuiil.” He leans into the backrest heavily, his arm slung on its surface, as some of the tension in his posture leaves him. 

“Mr Kuiil?” You prompt curiously when he seems content to remain quiet by your side, unaware that you have instinctively turned towards him like a mirror. With your knees pressed together and ankles crossed primly in the elegant slant that had been drummed into you from childhood, the gauzy outer material of your dress is able to freely flicker across his leg in the occasional breeze.

“I think I was driving him mad…” he says vaguely, intense brown eyes lowering leisurely across your form to land on the pale, undulating fabric. Still at a loss to know what he’s thinking, you determine that as usual he’ll speak in his own time and you content yourself with his quiet, steady presence as the rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. A delighted smile lights up your face and you eagerly look up hoping that lightning will soon be visible.

“I love storms.” You breathe, and after a pause glance to him when the sky remains a moody grey. Instantly you are transfixed by the sight that greets you. The arm he leaned on moments ago is now propped at the elbow as he idly smooths back and forth across his bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile as he watches you. You only look away when a small tug from your skirt draws your attention downward to where he has placed his other hand over the fabric that had draped itself over part of his own leg. For some reason the action flusters you, and you remember the unspoken reasons he was meant to be coming here for today, this man apparently having the ability to render you the silliest creature in the county with his mere presence. 

“You can be in no doubt as to why I’m here, Miss Dune.” He says quietly as if reading your mind and you’re only aware of the slight trembling of your hands, clasped loosely in your lap, when his own large, warm one slides from the material he’d anchored to close around them firmly. With wide eyes you take in every inch of his own now hopeful expression, the visible shift in his cravat as he swallows the only real indicator he isn’t as composed as his steadiness implied.

“I am not a patient man, little Dove,” his voice strains as he soothes your hands still sheltered in his own with slow circles of his thumb, “and I have known for some time my wishes where you are concerned.” Your stomach flips heavily and the minute, involuntary twitch of your limbs is steadied by his tightened grip as he leans closer, stretching out the moment and belying his own words as he drinks in your reaction until you cannot quite bear the anticipation any longer. 

“Ask me, Mr Djarin. Before nature steals my attention again…” You manage to say, sounding breathless and slightly shaky even to your own ears, but there’s no hiding the sweet joy in your tone. 

“I would get it back,” his low voice promises, his other hand sweeping up to hesitantly hover at the side of your face. When you don’t move away, the backs of his fingers trail softly, reverently, along the length of your jaw before settling just below your ear. 

“I am not a man of great words, even with the very definition of sweetness before me, it is not my way.” He says, quietly earnest, “but I feel my soul is bound to you, you whose equal I have never known…” The hand folded over your own tightens momentarily again, a mere twitch but it’s enough for you to remember the need to breathe. “Say you will do me the honour and consent to be my wife, my partner in all things.” He says with a hoarse urgency that softens the demand and adds a thick quality to his voice. Later you would be amused that it was not exactly a question, that like with most things he was direct and tenacious; his apprehension only visible in a fleeting, acute look in his eyes before your answer. 

“I will, sir.” Is your breathless reply, and his whole face warms with a hesitant, boyish smile - you’d almost call it disbelieving. “I will marry you.” You confirm, just to say it out loud in full and the brief pause that follows is filled with another loud rumble of thunder neither of you have the attention spare to hear.

“Say it again,” he whispers fiercely, the large hand so lightly cupping your face slides away, dropping into your lap to take up both of your hands. 

“I will marry you Mr Djarin!” You laugh out, and he presses a kiss to the back of each glove.

With a small tug at the material, and after gaining a shy nod of consent to his wordless appeal, he takes his time with both hands, pulling with surprising delicacy at each leather finger before finally drawing off the supple fabric. Stowing them in his pocket alongside his own he slowly repeats his ministrations on your bared skin, the two warm, simple presses of his lips rekindling your private thoughts from earlier.

Relaxing back into the seat with your left hand held in his own you fall into easy, happy conversation and are both content to remain in the private haven the folly has provided until the rain clears, all too aware you must both return to the house soon to make your engagement known.

When the break in weather finally does arrive you set off at a steady pace together, aware of the moody sky threatening another downpour. It is but minutes from the house it begins to fall once again and giggling at his surly expression as he looks up accusingly at the sky, you make a break from him to dash across the lawn for the cover of a large, low oak tree. With his long legs he is not far behind you, and a strong arm seizes around your waist just as you clear the leafy canopy. The brief sprint seems to have shaken any ire loose, lighting a different kind of fire in him as he whirls your laughing form around. With his arm resettled firmly around you, your chest heaves lightly from the burst of giddiness, but the sharp spike in your pulse is almost entirely from the assertive manner with which he crowds you back towards the trunk. 

“Running from me so soon?” he whispers, so close you can feel his words.

“Never.” You breathe out, breathless and vehement. Feeling bold, the anticipation intoxicating, you slowly give in to your instincts and slide your hands up from where they had come to rest on his upper arms. One to grasp the wide collar of his greatcoat at his chest, while the other gently explores a trail up the side of his covered neck to the sideburns at his cheek where you curiously test the texture on the back of your fingers. Unexpectedly his eyes flutter closed, and his head leaning into the touch emboldens you further. Cupping at his cheek you explore the plane of his cheekbone before softly trailing the tips of your fingers down to the corner of his mouth. 

When his eyes snap open they are darker than their usual warm brown, and from the feral expression on his face you suddenly worry you’ve gone too far, been too forward to be ladylike or acceptable, even with your new arrangement. This thought is shoved aside almost as quickly as it arrived when a finger curls under your chin, tilting your head towards him and he leans unmistakably closer. He moves slowly, clearly giving you time to decide, and your face warms pleasantly as the arm around your lower back pulls you flush to him. Your hand had instinctively drops from his face to his other collar to keep your balance with the short, sharp movement, and for just a moment he holds you there, eyes locked as his face hovers over your own and nothing but the sound of rain among the leaves in your ears. 

With the first touch of his lips to yours your eyes slip closed. The gentle pressure lingers with a sweetness you had not expected from him before it pulls away slowly only to be replaced with that of his thumb sliding reverently across your bottom lip. Your mouth parts slightly, the unexpected intimacy of the action awakening a deep, unknown yearning in you and so you do the only thing you can think of, and turn to press a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb which still lingers.

The rough, vocal huff he exhales, a sound neither a sob nor a groan, rings around in your head before he surges forward to slant his mouth across yours once again. His arm unwrapping from around you, he uses both hands to cradle your face covetously as he occasionally draws your bottom lip between his own. With each addictive movement, you feel an increase in the sensitivity of your flesh and when he eventually adds a light suckle, swiping his tongue along the same path his thumb made moments ago, it wrenches an involuntary whimper from high in your throat. 

His mouth abruptly leaves you at the sound and he touches his forehead to yours with a ragged exhale. You must look as dazed as you feel, you think as one of his warm palms slides down the length of your neck and arm to cover your own before bringing it under the collar to land on his heart. Through his clothing you can feel the rapid beat under your palm and it surprises you given his usual outward steadiness is still mostly intact.

“What you do to me.” He murmurs, his low voice taking on a huskier quality that renders you shyer than the physical moment you just shared. “We should return to the house,” he says firmly after a moment standing quietly against each other, “I think I am now overdue a conversation with your father.” He presses one last kiss to your hand before he tucks it into his arm. Walking the few steps to the edge of the trees reach he pauses abruptly and looks thoughtful, brows once again furrowed, and you think he is concerned about the drizzling rain but he surprises you completely.

“In actual fact, I am overdue a conversation with your sister. I promised that her blessing would be the first I sought.” The affection you feel in that moment is overwhelming. That he would recognise the bond you share with Cara, and make note to honour it in such a way assures you of your choice and of his true goodness of character, even if his often severe nature in company led many to believe otherwise. 

Moving round to stand in front of him, you remove your hand from his arm and in a mirror of his own actions earlier bring his own to your lips to press a lingering kiss on his fingers with a trembling, heartfelt thank you. When he somewhat twitchily extends his arm for you to take again, he can’t quite meet your eyes and the sight of his ears flushing red makes you sure you’ve flustered him for a change; it’s a whole new facet to his charm and you’re sure you could run all the way back to the house with so much happiness bubbling inside you.

As he pointedly looks out in the direction that will take you back to the house, his arm still up waiting, you feel playful mischief brewing and sigh dramatically. His head whips round and you try to keep your expression solemn as you peer up at his serious face.

“If you’re slow, you’ll be soaked by the time you get there…” you say, sounding concerned and the moment his brow raises in question you take off running across the garden. This time you know to be quicker and despite Cara having the lifelong advantage over you in such things, you manage to make it into the foyer a few seconds before him, your victorious little grin widening at the sight of his grumpy face. The housekeeper comes quickly at the sound of feet in the hall, and your features soften into a more genuine smile as he makes his request for the two audiences, first with your sister, then your father. Unable to say more to him in company and knowing you must go to your mother with the news in addition to changing your damp clothing, you quietly curtsy and reluctantly take your leave up the stairs. 

Watching you ascend away from him much like two nights ago, Din feels the corner of his mouth lift as he now easily imagines the same image of you on the stairs of Crest Park with the overwhelming satisfaction of your acceptance. When you’re beyond his sight his mind automatically begins to replay what has undoubtedly been the pleasantest morning of his life and your beautiful face as you said you would marry him is seared reverently into his mind forever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me @jura-moon on tumblr where I have more stories!

It’s still dark when your eyes blink open, too early for someone to have come in to lay the fire, and the sky only just beginning to lighten with a cold blue that spoke of a crisp, clear autumn morning approaching. Cara lies in front of you, her arm propped under her head just the way you have yours, the same position you’d both fallen asleep whispering well into the night. 

Two months had passed since Mr Djarin’s proposal, Din’s proposal, you still have to remind yourself, and today was the day you were to be married after weeks of frenzied activity. A sleepy glance towards your closet confirms it, the large cloth garment bag hanging outside the door is a pale beacon in the dull light of the room, and one of several items you know are laid out for the day. What belongings you would be taking with you had already been sent ahead to Mandalore, leaving only what you would need for the following days of travel to your new home. 

When you glance back down at Cara, you’re surprised to find her staring irritably at you with one eye open.

“Go back to sleep, you need it or you’ll frighten him off…” she mumbles, sinking further into her arm and lazily slapping her other hand over your face, letting it lie there heavily until you jerk away with a groan. Rolling onto your back you stare up at the ceiling, realising it would be the last time you would see this familiar sight for a long time, if not forever. 

Closing your eyes you attempt to relax, your mind drifting dreamily over the events of the past weeks as your fingers idly play with the duvet. Din had departed to his home Crest Park several days after your engagement in order to begin necessary preparations, including a detour to Coruscant for a marriage license. A Special License, your mother later noted with approval. No doubt she thought it merely a display of wealth, when in fact he was only motivated by the deduction you would prefer to have the ceremony in the grounds of Alderaan - something only a Special License would allow. 

You had been right in your conjecture he was a secret romantic, a Skywalker admirer indeed, and upon his return a week later as you perched together on a sofa in the parlour, he had revealed the document with an unusual shyness, asking haltingly if the plan for the gardens was acceptable as his eyes bore a hole in the floor at his feet. Cara and Mr Kuiil had been the least effective chaperones, sitting purposefully at the other end of the room playing chess while this exchange took place, and so after assuring him you were delighted with his thoughtfulness you felt quite safe in leaning across to press a chaste kiss to his cheek in thanks. His ears had once again flushed, but his confidence seemed to return and he had reached into his inner pocket to bring out a square, neatly wrapped parcel.

Pressing it gently into your hands, his broad form had stilled completely as he hovered close to watch your every movement as you had shyly, carefully peeled the Djarin crest wax seal loose before unfolding the paper to reveal a decorative leather box beneath. Opening his first gift to you with trembling hands, unlatching the gold fastening and lifting the lid with both hands, your eyes had widened at the set nestled in velvet. A riviere necklace comprised of oval cut garnets, and earrings to match, glowed from within. The facets of each deep red stone playing with shadows as much as light - you feel there could not have been a more perfect choice from him. 

“Do you know what garnets symbolise?” He asked quietly, leaning forward to remove the string of jewels from the case, before gesturing with a hand to turn in your seat. Clutching at the case like a lifeline, you’d replied that you did not as you rotated yourself so that your back was to him. He had immediately lifted the necklace into place and fastened the tiny clasp with surprising deftness, stroking the skin just below the jewels when they had settled with a gentleness that made you question if he’d truly done it. Turning back to face him once again, his eyes were riveted to the base of your throat as he continued, “they mean true friendship and trust.” His dark eyes serious and earnest as they slid up to meet yours, “I hope for us to be lifelong friends as well as lovers. My first gift to you…had to be more than a fleeting romantic trinket, meaningless sparkle…it had to be worthy.” 

You’re almost certain that was the moment the rope you’d been balancing on in his presence since near the beginning had slipped out from under your feet, leaving you to willingly plummet into the unknown below.

Turning your head drowsily away from your slumbering sister, you look over to the dresser where you can see the pale boxes containing the rest of your wedding clothes, smiling to yourself when you think of the envelope you have stowed within the tissue that wraps your stockings. Inside lies the Djarin crest wax seal, preserved from the wrapping of that first gift, and to it you had made the addition of a small loop of thread melted into the back. When it was light, you planned to stitch it to one of the garter straps so that it would sit on your silk clad thigh.

You must doze off, as the next time you open your eyes there is a fire crackling in the hearth and the sun is beginning to rise. With the room a little warmer you slide out from beneath the covers and leave Cara to sleep a while longer, knowing that she’ll likely wake soon with the sound of people moving around. Almost on queue your maid backs into the room with a tea tray and after quietly setting it on the dresser where you’ll be able to reach everything, the pair of you begin to unwrap the first item laid out for the day.

By the time Cara stirs, you are sitting in the gauzy new chemise and stockings as your hair is pinned into place, and you stitch your little garter strap addition. Her face appears briefly beside yours in the mirror as she wishes you a good morning and takes a sip from your teacup before swiftly striding out of the room with a promise to be back once she’s dressed and ready. Shifting to tie the finished garter belt around the top of your stocking, you feel a small thrill at the idea of him being the one to remove it. Of course, nerves are naturally still present, but after weeks of fleeting and far between moments - a brief press of lips in a hall before entering a room full of visitors, a brush of hands under the dinner table, you feel fit to burst. 

Two nights ago, the last you saw him, Cara and Kuiil had walked ahead to the horses waiting for the gentlemen outside, giving the pair of you a moment alone. His hands had flexed tersely in the moment just before they had cupped your cheeks, the leather of his gloves feeling smooth and cool against your flushed skin. Holding on to his wrists as he pressed his forehead to yours he simply held you there with his jaw clenched, tense after hours of interacting with well-wishing guests and repetitive pleasantries. 

Thinking about that moment now, you can understand some of that tension. By the time you’re almost fully dressed, you can hear the sound of horses on gravel as guests arrive and your sister returns with a glass of brandy as if the fluttering in your stomach had summoned her. 

“Ignatius has arrived…” she says as you’re laced into your outer gown, beautifully embroidered and possibly the finest thing you’ve ever worn. “He’s still concerned.” Swallowing half of the brandy in one, you pass the remaining to her with a nod and she polishes it off. Colonel Arvala had initially taken the news badly, another topic your unbearable cousin had delighted in over breakfast the next morning. His leaving in silence, minutes after you had revealed the news over tea had shocked yourself, Cara and even your mother who had taken to sitting downstairs more often to receive congratulatory visitors. He had not returned for several days and you had been devastated, not sure what to think despite your cousin’s insistence that he must have presumed to marry you after all these years. 

On the third morning, the morning Mr Djarin was due to leave for Mandalore, you had shifted from grief to anger at his continued avoidance and requested a horse in order to make the journey to his estate. Minutes later with one foot already in the stirrup, you had just lifted your second from the ground when two hands grabbed at the waist of your riding jacket and dragged you back. The hands give you no chance to stagger as you land with a harsh gasp, and whirling round you’re surprised to see Din dressed for travel. 

“Not walking alone this time, but riding.” He says with a hint of exasperation that any other time would have amused you and provoked you into teasing him, but today your stormy mood combined with the fright has you feeling frayed at the edges. When you can’t meet his eyes, he says your name softly and your traitorous eyes water without your permission. 

“I believe I have not yet made a vow to obey you, sir. Have a safe journey Mr Djarin.” You say with a quick curtsy, turning back to the horse and getting ready to mount again. Once again you are prevented by his hands hoisting you backwards, turning you gently.

“Tell me.” The command is soft, his low voice imploring, and between his unwavering steadiness and openly concerned expression you find yourself doing just that and telling him. His face is neutral as he listens, but you can feel the tension in him in his hands, cradling the backs of your upper arms. 

“This is…” with a deep sigh he hangs his head, “I should have faced this long before now.” Pulling you gently a few steps away from the fidgeting horse, almost as if he’s worried you might bolt, he slides his hands to yours and his mouth is drawn in a grim line as he seems to consider how to proceed. 

“I am selfish, little dove, I would have all your feelings to myself,” he begins with a smile that holds no humour, “however, if I reveal the story of my first encounter with Arvala now I fear it will reflect badly on both of us. I must ask something of you.” His grip tightens momentarily, “I have now seen him in company, seen him through your eyes, your sisters, Kuiil’s…I have not seen him for myself, we have avoided one another, and I now know that cannot remain the case. Permit me to go to him, to clarify the circumstances through which we met and set things right by you at the very least.” Your confusion only grows but you find yourself nodding, trusting him, and his shoulders visibly drop. “Give me two hours and I shall return. I will not leave for Mandalore until this has been resolved.” Delivering you back to the front door of the house, he presses a swift kiss to the back of your riding glove before he strides away, and you’re unsure whether you feel reassured or more worried as you watch him mount his horse and ride away. 

Upon his return and the request for an audience with you alone to discuss wedding arrangements is granted, he enters the room looking visibly agitated. Rising to greet him you’re astounded when instead of a bow he crosses the room swiftly, and drops to his knees at your feet. 

“I tried to kill him…” He murmurs, almost inaudible but looking up at you rapidly when he realises he’s spoken aloud and you have heard, “when we first met.” The clarification has you dropping heavily into your seat, though the stiff boning at the front of your stays prevent you the relief of slouching. He seems a little lost, and so you take his face between your hands, soothing your thumbs over his cheekbones, urging him to look at you. 

“Tell me.” You mirror his gentle command from earlier this morning. 

“It was a year ago.” He says with the air of confession, “my townhouse in Coruscant was set ablaze while I was dining with the Vizla family - distant relatives. I was alerted by a messenger, you could see the smoke halfway across town,” his face sinks into your touch further as he continues, “my infant ward was within that house…” Your eyes widen in shock, and your heart sinks at the idea of a child in such a life threatening situation.

“Are they alright?” You immediately ask, all other questions falling to the wayside, and his hands curl up over your own still cradling his face. 

“Yes, but I had thought the worst when I saw Mrs Motto without him when we arrived. A suspect had been apprehended, hands covered in gunpowder residue - they suspected he’d been knocked unconscious by a blast as he tried to make his escape.” Your relief quickly becomes dread when it dawns on you what he is about to say and your hands slip out from under his, to clutch at the collar of his soft, dark jacket. His hands automatically follow, a little hesitant at first but you don’t move, his warm palms and the texture of the material are the anchors you need to swallow down your rising anxiety and hear him say it.

“Arvala was the man they found. When we roused him he lashed out, breaking my nose. I will not repeat the things he said in that moment, but he was wild with anger and adamant we hand over the child; he did not deny causing the fire, and with his knowledge of my missing charge…I lost my temper. I wanted answers…” His voice is guttural as he speaks and your eyes close in exasperation, you can picture it exactly - Ignatius, adrenaline fuelled and sarcastic, his usual wit barbed in his anger. There was no reasoning with him when he felt cornered, and he instinctively knew where to prod for a reaction at the best of times.

“What happened?” You whisper, unsure if you truly want to know.

“We fought.” He answers shortly, truthfully, though he now struggles to meet your eyes. “I owe my cousin Vizla a greater debt than I previously thought - it was he who dragged me away.” 

“You thought he’d set the fire, taken your ward?” you confirm faintly and he nods once, “and now?” 

“And now I am glad to know the truth where Arvala is concerned,” he says with a sigh, “once we had been separated he was taken away to be questioned by the militia, later I would find out he was a Colonel, and simply assumed the alibi he gave to be fabricated to protect him, but by then the boy had been returned to me - he heard my voice in the courtyard and came crawling from an outhouse without a scratch.” The fondness in his voice is unmistakable and your mind is in six different places at once, but swallowing your questions you allow him to continue. “A house is replaceable, none of my household grievously injured and I had spilled blood for what was done, though I knew the matter to be a lost cause to the law.” He pauses to rub roughly at his jaw, “he did not have to conceal my brutality from your neighbourhood, from you, and he did not have to allow me into his home today…” You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so unsettled and as you digest all this new information your hands drop thoughtlessly to your lap. 

His face falls visibly and he re-centers himself on his knees before you, his hands placating as he pulls them away like he’s been burned or, you realise when you see the open apprehension in his eyes, like he feels he might burn you. Tilting your legs further to the side so your thigh is flush with the sofa as you perch on the edge of the cushion, you’re about as close as you can be without falling into his lap, and it’s easy to place your arms tentatively around his neck in a loose embrace. For your comfort as much as his. 

“I do wish this had been resolved sooner and I am not happy you raised your hand against him,” you begin with a voice less shaky than you imagined it would be, “but you thought he had done your family a great wrong and I think he knows that. No matter any lingering resentment for his injuries, if he truly thought you a bad person he would have made a point to dissuade Cara and I from knowing you, and certainly would have actively warned against it when he saw my attachment.” Bringing your hands to his face once again you tilt his head to you as you lean close, he seems to have stopped breathing entirely “he let you in today because neither of you saw the entire truth of that day, both of you saw injustice, and he would want that to be corrected where possible.” His lips draw into a grim line and you think you’ve misspoken until a puff of humour escapes his nose.

“I should be laying out my errors for you to condemn, desperate to know if you can still possibly accept me, and yet all I can think of is how much I wish for you to know me as deeply as you know Ignatius Arvala.” His eyes close briefly when a small, shocked laugh escapes you and the tension leaves his posture.

“Will you please join me on the sofa? I feel like you’re awaiting execution on your knees like this.” You ask, leaning back to take in the image of this large man in such a humbling posture.

“On my knees for you would be a fine way to go, little dove.” He says with a fleeting kiss to your hand before he rises and sinks onto the cushion with a barely audible groan, as his hand comes to land along the backrest. “He was expecting me. It seems his intelligence is greater than some of his humour implies at least…” The quip sounds so like Cara you feel the first true glimmer of hope that the two men could get along in the future. 

“He was on his way home from the theatre that night, passing my property he could see flames spreading through two windows but the house seemed silent, too silent for the people within to know. He scaled the railings and was attempting to find a door when he saw a figure in the grounds, heading away quickly and quietly. He called out to verify the man’s identity and saw when he turned that there was a child under his arm, ‘not held, but carelessly gripped’ is how Arvala described it. I was apparently not his first exchange of fists that evening, he made to recover the boy by force, seeing that this could not possibly be a relative or carer, and when he succeeded, left the man out cold on the gravel while he sought to alert the household. He’d made it to the door when he was struck at the back of his head, and he himself fell unconscious. When he awoke he had lost time and, disorientated, sought to continue the earlier confrontation with me. He did not realise who I was and that the child had crawled away when he fell, the true culprit must have had no chance to truly look with the house alerted by the sound of their confrontation. Arvala saved the lives of my entire household that evening, and in my anger and grief I did not give him a chance to explain.” You feel angry and grieved yourself to know that someone carried out such a horrible act, but mostly you are relieved both men are safe and sound.

“And your ward? You have never mentioned him! Will I meet him?” You had not yet thought of having your own children, even with your upcoming marriage, but the idea of this child, a soul he would raise hell for - you were eager to know him. 

“I was going to tell you of him the night of the ball, we were interrupted by the rain. He was a foundling. With no living relatives I am bound to his care, and the upkeep of his estate, until he is of age to inherit - in Mandalore this is the way.” You can see his thumb turning his ring habitually as he watches your reaction carefully, “He is currently in the care of the Jedi Temple, though he is not yet old enough for schooling. They are the safest place I could think of given the event of last year. I am still deciding how to proceed with his upbringing - you shall meet him, if that is what you wish.” He says, and the hint of hope in his tone betrays his own wishes on the matter.

“I would like nothing more, Mr Djarin,” you say earnestly, “would he come to Mandalore? To Crest Park?” He seems surprised by your question, his movements stilling as he seems to consider the fabric at your shoulder intensely. 

“Is this, would you…is this something you would find acceptable?” his low voice now more audibly hopeful and you’re a little surprised he would take your opinion into consideration where most men of such standing would do as they pleased. Once again you are reminded of the duality of this man, hearing of his brutality and power one minute, and his soft, almost shy care and consideration the next. 

“It is not only acceptable, I’m afraid I insist.” You attempt an imperious tone, but your soft smile and the coy tilt to your head somewhat spoils the effect as he stares you down, seeming to wait for you to change your mind. “The safest place in the world for him is with you.” You say with a seriousness that seems to reassure him, and you’re surprised but delighted when he suddenly leans forward to capture your lips in a fierce but fleeting kiss. His mouth hovers just above yours for a moment as he seems to attempt to bring himself back under control before he leans back slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“If Mrs Djarin insists.” He concedes quietly, and the use of your future name sends a streak of heat across your cheeks. “Arvala will be along later today, he insists on finally making his congratulations and dragging my villainous name appropriately.” He says evenly, the small smile on his face growing almost boyish as he sees you light up at the news. 

“And shall I be scandalised by your wicked ways or defend your honour do you think?” You ask, hoping to sustain his revived mood. For a moment there is no outward reaction, and you decide to prompt him by leaning forward, head tilted as you mirror him, placing your arm precariously alongside his on the thin backrest. He remains still a few seconds more, considering you before languidly leaning forward until you’re compelled to recline back when he does not stop his advance. Cornered against the sofa, a thrill runs down your spine as he leans bodily over you, dark eyes riveted to yours.

“My wicked ways, Miss Dune?” He questions, a flicker of humour lacing his rich voice as you blink up at him, “they find you particularly inspiring.” His fingertips trace their way down your cheek, brushing across your lip before lowering further along your neck where you’re sure he feels you swallow as your breath stutters. At your collarbone he reaches the light lace scarf tucked into your neckline, and you stop breathing altogether as he slowly drags the fabric away from your skin between two of his fingers. He watches the movement with hungry eyes and you hear an audible gasping squeak leave your throat when the scarf is removed altogether with a jerk of his wrist. 

Clutching at his jacket your hands tremble minutely as his head lowers, his prominent nose running along your jaw before a kiss is pressed to the sensitive skin just below your ear. He slowly pulls away and you watch him tuck your dainty scarf into his inner pocket before he helps you sit up. 

“My journey will take a few days,” he places a hand over the area where the scarf lies within, “I would take you with me somehow…” 

Standing in your wedding clothes, now weeks after that eventful morning, you idly trace your fingers over the same path the lacy fabric had taken over your collarbones as you wonder if he truly did keep it.

More importantly you were happy to note that the two men had made a true effort to overcome their disastrous first meeting in the time since, but it seemed the Colonel was still struggling with the lingering worry. He was not so concerned over Din any longer, even going so far as to say he’d grown fond of provoking him, but there was a burnt townhouse and kidnapping attempt that remained in the back of his mind.

“I know, Cara. I think you should be settling his nerves more than mine.” You say with a nod towards the empty glass in her hand as the final laces at your back are tightened and tucked in. 

“From the way he’s pacing a hole in the shrubbery, you’d think he was the one getting married.” Her grin is easy and natural, and with a smart tap sets the glass down as she crosses the room to the window. She beckons you over with a gesture to the garden and peering out, you both cannot help but laugh at the sight of distinct marks in the gravel where he has walked back and forth.

“I think you had better go to him, Cara. Any advice you were planning on imparting to me would be of more use to him from the looks of it..” You say sagely, the small flick she delivers to your dangling earring quickly breaking your serious expression while she almost manages to look disapproving. As if he senses you both observing him the Colonel looks up at your window and freezes in his tracks, his sheepish expression visible even from the second floor. 

“You look beautiful, sweet one.” She says, continuing to look out at your friend, now making his way back towards the house.

“I’m sure Ignatius would be delighted to hear you tell him in person.” You reply blithely, moving away from the window to displace the sudden rush of nervous energy at her soft statement. Fortunately her responding eye roll is such a normal, everyday response you’re soothed just as quickly and wrapping your arms around her you murmur your thanks in her ear a mere moment before a knock at the door alerts you that it’s almost time. 

Throughout the ceremony you are as aware of Din Djarin’s stare as if it were a physical touch. The outdoor setting, awash with the warm tones of Autumn, provides a beautiful backdrop for the formalities that despite binding you to this man forever, seem to require very little of your input. As he steps forward to sign the document laid out first, you find yourself holding back a smile at the haste with which he puts down his mark; his calm composure betrayed by the urgency in his manner. Though it’s only a step, his hand rises for you to take and he draws you forward quickly to join him at the plinth with an inscrutable expression. When your name is inked carefully next to his, you are both bid to turn and be presented officially as man and wife to the select gathering of people present. 

With Din guiding you through the parted crowd to lead the procession back to the house, the congratulations come from all sides and your delighted smile only grows at the sight of his visibly reddening ears. Tucked firmly into his side as you re enter the building for the wedding breakfast, Cara is the first to descend on the pair of you with the Colonel in tow - not one for tears she instead pulls you into a fierce embrace as Colonel Arvala offers a handshake to Din with a small but sincere grin. To yourself, he cannot remain so reserved and turning to you, bows dramatically.

“Mrs Djarin!” He greets with a flourish and you can’t help your laugh as you dip into a returning curtsy, the veil running down your back adding an unusual weight to your movement. “With all my heart I wish you well, my dear.” He adds with a little more gravity before his usual exuberance returns as the other guests clamour for your attention. 

The following celebrations are somewhat a blur, the emotions of the day running high as the approach of your departure draws nearer and your new husband, despite seeming keen on remaining within arms reach of you, ensures you are able to spend your limited time with those dearest to you mostly undisturbed by his input. Instead he seems content to stand close, hand subtly entangled within the length of your veil as he lifts the majority of the fabric’s weight, and responding to others where polite and necessary.

Handing you into the carriage sometime after noon you are able to keep your composure knowing it would not be long until you see Cara again, and Din’s quietly devoted gestures throughout the day had ensured you’re too sweetly overjoyed by him to feel anything less than excited for your new life. When you are both settled, he pauses a moment, allowing you to look out once more at your family gathered in front of the house before rapping on the roof to signal his coachmen. With a lurch the carriage shifts forward, and your hand whips out to clutch his instinctively with the movement as you watch the house slide from view with a fluttering of tossed confetti and the sound of the youngest guests running giddily alongside the carriage until it gains speed. 

Travelling the long driveway of Alderaan you finally turn to face the quiet man beside you, only to find him watching you with a small satisfied tilt to his lips as he reclines leisurely in the plush seating, visibly at home in the intimate space. Now that he has your attention, he draws you away from the window until you’re leaning into him, your pulse spiking at his proximity and knowing that there is no longer any chaperone to interrupt as he carefully moves to cradle your face.

“Mrs Djarin…” he greets with a soft stroke of his thumb across your cheek, your eyes fluttering at the feeling of his bare skin before he finally lowers his lips to yours. Your response is immediate, desperate to feel that intense pulse in your lower stomach he seems to ignite so easily, and the soft groan that erupts from deep in his chest only emboldens you more. He remains gentle and chaste and though his care is appreciated, you wish to see him shed some of the restraint that he had kept a tight grip on in the past weeks. Remembering how it felt when his teeth had once softly raked over your bottom lip, you mimic that action now, soothing the area with a gentle suckle that turns his torso stiff under your hands where they’re placed for balance. 

Pulling away slowly to gauge his reaction you don’t get far before he’s bringing you back with a thumb and finger on your chin, his other arm locking around your waist to draw you flush against him. He seems determined to render you senseless, and a sharp tug of the arm around your waist as he slants his mouth over yours is all he needs to conjure a gasp, allowing him to swipe his tongue across your own before dragging his lips across your jaw to your ear. 

“We have a long journey ahead,” he murmurs with a roughness that would be gratifying if not for your own shiver at the feeling of his lips gently pressing at the sensitive skin just below your earlobe, “I should remain a gentleman….” His tongue and lips lathe at the spot once more and your chest heaves with a shaking breath at the new feeling, your head pliantly tilting to give him access as he continues a slow path down your neck to where his gift of garnets are nestled on your collarbone, “at least until you are at home.” The steady arm around you never falters, even as you shiver from the ticklish sensation of his breath fanning across your skin as he studies the string of jewels closely before he abruptly clears his throat and rises to eye level once more. 

“You look radiant,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, “I think I will remember the first sight of you this morning for as long as I live.” Your mind reels between his heady attentions and endearing reverence. For a man who claimed to have no way with words, the ones he did utter could be used to great effect and you are not sure which has you feeling more flustered. 

“You are in great danger of rendering me quite silly, Mr Djarin,” You say primly, brushing down his lapels with a smile, “a silly wife to a handsome husband.” 

“Nobody who has heard you string three words together could think you silly.” He replies with a clench of the arm still around your waist before he settles back fully once more with you leaning easily against his side as you both look out at the passing countryside. 

“Mandalore is mountainous too is it not?” You ask, thinking back to what he had previously told you of his home.

“Less so than Cerea,” he replies after a moment, “there is a large range visible in clear weather from the front of the house, but wild moors and hills and will replace your woodlands for the most part.” His expression is unreadable as he watches you, but you can feel he’s tense and you surmise he is worried you will somehow disapprove. 

“I can’t wait to see it all,” you say softly, “It will be the first winter in years I’ll have seen snow lower than the mountain tops…” Your dreamy tone has his head tilting thoughtfully, his dark eyes scanning you from top to toe. 

“You’ll be fitted for some warmer attire next week.” He says firmly, and when you sit up from his side looking ready to defend your winter wardrobe, his hand curls under your chin, “it has been arranged for weeks now - Mandalorian winters are deadly, I am afraid in this instance, you will have to indulge me.” 

“If that is what you call indulging you, sir, then you are a very singular man indeed,” you reply with a smile as you settle back into his warm side, “thank you, Din.” 

For the next few hours the pair of you alternate between watching the scenery change and reading together, the weather gradually turning colder prompting Din to reach under the bench for a blanket. Between his furnace-like warmth, the soft blanket draped around you and the gentle motion of the carriage you feel yourself growing drowsy and it’s altogether too easy to close your eyes. When they next open, the sun is set and you’re held against his side, legs curled up on the bench in a way you don’t remember placing them and your arm slung across his stomach; from the feeling of it, held in place by his own. Shifting your head from his shoulder you see that his head has dropped forward in sleep, though with your movement he is quick to rouse with a dissatisfied groan. 

“How long have we been asleep?” You ask, feeling somewhat disorientated. 

“A few hours at least,” he answers with a glance out to the darkened landscape, “we’ve made good time, we should be there a little before midnight.” Sitting up more fully, the dull ache at the top of your head reminds you of the veil still pinned into your styled curls and you give in to the urge to take it off completely. Beginning to remove your gloves in order to feel out the pins, he interrupts, taking hold of the silky material himself. Like the day he proposed he is slow but sure in his movements as he slides them off you, and when they’re placed into his pocket for safekeeping he urges you to turn. Shifting to your opposite side, you now face the back of the carriage, knees settling against the backrest and your hands on his chest for balance as he inspects your hair in the darkness - the lamp swinging outside to aid the coachmen being of little assistance. 

“I will be the only one removing your wedding clothes, little dove.” he says as he slides the lacy material down the back of your head, his low voice near instantly bringing back the dull ache from earlier. Even in the low light you can see the mischievous crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he slowly draws the veil forward around you, using it to pull you closer as you giggle helplessly at his sudden turn of mood. Winding your arms around his shoulders as he reclines back into the plush cushion with a satisfied smirk, he gives a playful pull at the fabric still keeping you in his space. 

“That does not seem very traditional,” you observe, the very picture of innocence as you smooth your hands into the curling ends of his hair at the back of his head and give a light tug in return. With a grunt his breathing jerks audibly and you memorise the reaction for later as he begins to reel the veil in inch by inch from around your back. 

“Ah yes, tradition…” he murmurs consideringly as he sets the veil at his side. “Once upon a time, wife,” a hand decisively settles on your knee at his side, and your fingers still wrapped in his hair come to an immediate halt, “brides in Mandalore would have a certain piece of wedding clothing removed by the groom at the ceremony itself.” He slides firmly up to your thigh where, covered by luxuriously gauzy layers, he can certainly feel the strap around your stocking and your breath catches, fingers twitching in his hair. 

There’s a maddening second of stillness between you as the carriage bumps along the road, his expression mischievous as he scrutinises you, ever mindful of your reaction, and so with a flirtatious tilt to your head you resume twisting at the soft strands, your limbs relaxed as you lean in to brush your nose against his. The grip on your thigh squeezes as his chin tilts for a kiss and, deciding to go along with his playfulness, you shift away to brush your lips along his jaw instead, your fingers raking freshly through the back of his head, gripping firmly when his head tries to turn and follow. 

“At the ceremony?” you question softly into his ear, feeling his shoulders tense under your arms as your lips retrace their path, “in front of all those people?” Evading his mouth once again as you relax away from him, you think you could get used to the heady feeling of seeing him ruffled, and when his hand shoots up to grip the back of your neck you know you could get used to the tremble that races down your spine as he pulls you back to him. 

“In front of all those people,” he confirms gruffly, his nose brushing yours, “back then it was a coveted event…” His thumb strokes along the sensitive skin of your neck, a thrilling testament to just how large his hands are and you squirm with the touch. He seems to enjoy the reaction, repeating the motion once more before stilling and you’re starting to question just how impatient this man could truly be as he simply holds you there. 

“Din?” It spills out like a question, though you’re not exactly sure what you’re asking, and you barely recognise the high breathless pitch of your own voice.

“We Mandalorians have many traditions…” he says smoothly, the hand still on your thigh squeezing gently and, just when you feel like you can’t take the tension a second longer, he finally kisses you again, torturously slow and in complete contrast to the way you want him to relieve some of this aching want that’s built up between you.

“It does you credit to uphold them then, Mr Djarin,” you say when he pulls away, your eyes fluttering open, and the hand at your neck sliding around the chain of garnets as he exhales a rough hum. Your mother had described time spent of any kind with a husband as if it were a chore, but you were finding this unguarded, if unorthodox, interaction to be enjoyable in ways you’d not foreseen. 

“I will be removing this, as is tradition,” he says as his fingers trace what he can of the strap on your thigh, “when I’ve removed everything but this…” he finishes with a tug at the jewels at your throat. Your skin prickles pleasantly as you attempt to formulate a response to such a brazen statement, but his fingertips now wandering across your collarbones is utterly distracting. You’re certain he can feel your breathing stutter, his dark eyes lowering to watch as he drifts boldly towards the low scoop of your neckline.

Inhaling sharply you’re not certain if you’re relieved or disappointed when his hand immediately shifts up to cup your jaw. Clearing his throat as you slow the heavy rise and fall of your chest, he presses a kiss to your forehead and nods towards the window.

“Mrs Djarin, you’re almost home.” He says softly, and immediately you whip round to look out into the darkness. In the distance you can see torches lighting a path, and sweeping your feet back to the floor so that you can shift closer to the window, it becomes easier to see the occasional glimpse of a house illuminated window by window in welcome. “And not a moment too soon.” He murmurs, sliding along to wrap himself around you as you watch the large gates of your new home loom closer together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more of my writing as @jura-moon on tumblr!
> 
> I'm likely only going to post these 6 chapters since the interaction and community is far more active over there.

When the carriage rolls to a halt at the front of the house, Din all but throws himself out of the little ornate door. Your amused laugh at his eagerness dies on your lips as soon as you rise to join him, your legs protesting after hours of sitting in the small space and you’re grateful for his hand as he assists you out. Giggling as your shaky knees buckle slightly when you step down onto the gravel, he tucks your hand into his arm with a barely concealed smirk - his own upright posture seemingly unaffected. Looking up at your new home you feel like your knees might truly give up. Though it’s dark, the tall illuminated windows are just bright enough to give you an impression of the building, and you’re a little overwhelmed by what you see. It’s grand. Understated, but grand.

“Your home is beautiful, Din.” you breathe with a squeeze of his arm, trying to take in as much as you can in the limited light. 

“Your home.” He replies firmly, joining you in looking up. “And it has never looked as beautiful to me as it does now, with you about to walk into it.” 

“You’re turning out to be quite the poet, Mr Djarin…” You reply, and his barely audible grumble as he reaches round to snap the carriage door shut fuels your urge to tease him. You’re given little chance, as he begins to march you forward towards the house where the door is being drawn open to reveal a row of staff waiting in the foyer. He must feel your minute tremble, the nerves of greeting an entire household as the reality of being mistress of this house settles deep in your gut and he brings you tighter to his side. 

Entering the foyer of marble and dark wood your introduction by Din is characteristically short and to the point, as expected by all, but his open affection towards you as you warmly greet everyone is clearly a source of interest, and you’re a little relieved when Peli Motto steps forward first to welcome you both.

“Welcome home!” she says stepping forward, and you instantly remove yourself from your husband’s arm to take her extended hands, delighted to see her again. “I got the items you sent ahead, it’s all prepared for them,” she confides quietly before shooting a fearsome glare towards the man looming behind you, “give the lady a moment to breathe in her house, Djarin.” 

Din’s jerky movement forward to shadow you comes to a halt, his blank expression back in place as he stares the shorter woman down. 

“Perhaps you could show my wife her rooms, Peli,” he eventually relents quietly as two other senior members of the household step forward to introduce themselves personally. By the time you’ve spoken to everyone gathered individually, your dreamlike feeling from the carriage had made way for absorbing new names and faces, and from the surly look on his face, Din knew it and wasn’t pleased with your shift in attention. 

With a nod to his butler, the staff are promptly dismissed for the evening and Din steps aside, gesturing to the curved staircase for you to ascend. 

“The lady of the house sent word ahead that I could join the others. Besides, you should be a gentleman and show her those rooms yourself. You spent long enough having them arranged then rearranged!” Mrs Motto says before you can move and your amusement begins to creep back into your features, while Din’s scowl grows. He looks between you both slowly before the woman clicks her tongue with impatience and asks if there’s anything further you needed this evening. 

“No, thank you Mrs Motto. Enjoy your evening.” You reply and the older woman brightens as she says goodnight, darting away towards the door the others had left through moments earlier. Din’s question is unspoken as you once again link your arm through his and you both begin to ascend the staircase. 

“The household at Alderaan are excused this evening - there’s a table of wedding fare laid out for them when the guests leave or retire. I wrote to Mrs Motto a fortnight ago to ask if that would be acceptable here too.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, and you wonder if he would have preferred to know of this first.

“I should have thought of something like that…” he admits quietly, sounding stiff and a little sheepish and you run your hand over his arm in reassurance. 

“You did!” you reply brightly, “it was arranged to be from the two of us. There’s also a bottle of cherry brandy waiting for Mrs Motto, and she was good enough to let me know about your butler’s preference for port. Both houses are celebrating!” He looks at you for a long moment, before his dark eyes seem to grow distant.

“They’re celebrating…” He says sounding mildly surprised, confusing you with his apparent confusion. Refocusing on your puzzled expression he clears his throat, “I never expected to-” he cuts himself off and you suddenly understand. This man had grown up without his family, and had remained a bachelor all this time - he had never expected to be married. Had never even thought of the fact that his household would celebrate his marriage. 

“Yes, they’re celebrating,” you say, stepping round to stand toe to toe with him with a tilt to your head, “now, are you going to do the same by enjoying the view from these stairs or are you going to make me your wife?” you ask with a growing smile, tapping the end of his nose. You’re not sure how a man who stands so still can appear to stiffen further, but he does, his eyes riveting on you with renewed intensity. 

His jaw ticks and your stomach plummets as a low hum rumbles from his chest as his hand comes up to grip your jaw from under your chin, fingers spanning your cheeks gently but firmly, and the softest kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. Your eyes flutter at the feeling. The contrast between the powerful placement of his hand and the lightness of his lips brushing your skin is dizzying, and when he pulls back your head automatically tilts to follow him like he’s cast a spell.

Your momentary distraction is all he needs, his arm sweeping under your knees to gather you up and your initial yelp descends into helpless giggles as he strides down a set of hallways you have no attention to spare for remembering, clinging to his shoulders despite the resolute hold he has on you. Coming to a halt in front of dark double doors, he sets you back on your feet before crowding you forward into the room beyond.

Allowing you a moment to look around the room as he reaches back to close the door, his hands then settling on your ribs just below the high empire waistline of your gown. He ushers you forward towards the tall fireplace where a fire is merrily crackling in the hearth, warming the room and casting an inviting glow over the dark, rich furnishings. 

“You have your own set of rooms of course, should you want use of them. Through that door there,” he swivels you so that you can see the entrance linking the chambers he’s speaking of before returning you to face the warmth of the fire, “but I hope that you will see this room as yours as much as mine.” 

With your back to his chest you can feel his breathing halt as he waits for your reaction - the sentiment is an unusual one when most women live almost entirely separate lives to their husbands, but the more he shows you how much he cherishes the growing closeness between you, the less surprising it is when he suggests something unorthodox. 

“Such a proposition might need some convincing, Mr Djarin,” you say slyly, leaning further into him at the insistent tug of his hands. Feeling his thoughtful hum at your back and across the bare skin of your shoulder as his head lowers and you allow your head to tilt as his nose draws a path along your neck before his mouth traces back along the same path. 

“Convincing…” he says with faux consideration, nipping at the junction of your neck and shoulder, your sharp inhale melting away in a whimper as he soothes the area with his tongue. The sound seems to spark something in him, his hands smoothing a path to the laces at your back, and with a deft series of tugs the bodice of your outer gown loosens. With your back to him you don’t see the way his eyes watch as he slowly peels the beautiful fabric off your shoulders, but you certainly feel the way his hands drag the bodice down until the weight of the embroidery allows the dress to drop to the floor. 

Stepping out of the pooled fabric and your slippers Din mirrors the movement, stepping to the side with you and continuing to mouth at your skin as his hand comes up to tangle in the next set of laces at the front of your stays, using the fistful of silky cords to hold you firmly against his front. Trailing his mouth up to your ear, your breathing quickly picks up as the warmth of the fire mingles with the burning flush rolling across your skin.

“I can be convincing.” He says before using his grip on your front to turn you to face him. His dark eyes are hypnotic in the low, warm light of the room and you watch as they slide down to where your breasts swell against the boned garment as you try and regain control over your breathing. “Though it’s tempting to keep you here, looking just like this…” The fingers tangled in the thin cords give a short tug, and though this brand of boldness is still new to you, you use his cravat to pull his lips to yours.

He responds like a fire has been lit, his free hand tilting your chin as his lips move desperately after hours of restraint. With a few movements, the knot of your stays comes undone, and he begins pulling the laces free level by level, the fabric parting slowly as he nips at your bottom lip much like you had done earlier in the carriage. Pushing the stays from your shoulders you’re left in your thin chemise, one of the sleeves falling to drape across your upper arm with the loss of your structural garment. 

With one last lingering kiss he pulls back to look at you, his breathing heavy as you mirror his actions and begin to remove his jacket while his eyes wander; the thin, loose fabric of your slip the only barrier between your bare form and his heavy gaze. Running your hands back up his arms, you’re more than a little enamoured by the feeling of his large arms under the thinner fabric of his shirt, aware of the tension in his muscles as you make your way to his cravat. Untying the knot you begin to unwind the fabric from his neck, only pausing when he maneuvers you both towards the plush loveseat to the side of the fireplace.

His hands tighten on your hips in a rough squeeze as you eventually unravel the final loop of cloth around his neck; it feels like you’re seeing something forbidden, even this slight state of his undress. You curiously drag your fingertips along the newly exposed skin, his throat bobbing when you trail up to stroke along his sharp jaw. 

He encourages you to sit, his hands rucking your chemise up enough so that when he kneels he is able to part your legs around him by the hold under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the seat his hands begin to travel up your thighs. The flutter in your stomach has grown into a dull ache by the time he brings his lips to your collarbone, your head dropping back as he begins sucking a path across the skin between your shoulders, his hands shifting to settle high on your ribs, wrenching a gasp from you when his thumbs graze the sensitive underside of your breasts. 

Your nipples stiffen in reaction and the soft, luxurious chemise is suddenly the roughest thing you’ve ever worn as he continues to lazily draw his thumbs in circles. Your back arches into his touch as his mouth continuously lowers, his large hands keeping you locked in place as he continues past your neckline, and they prevent you from squirming when his mouth brushes a pebbled nipple before opening his mouth to give a brief, wet suck. Your jaw slackens at the feeling and your hands fly to the hair at the back of his head, unsure whether you want to push him away or keep him just where he is. 

Hovering above the wet patch he’s created, his dark eyes slide up to meet your wide ones, watching you intently as he deliberately swipes his thumb over the spot his mouth has just vacated. Unable to wriggle in place like you truly need to, your thighs twitch at his sides and he pushes himself impossibly closer, one of his arms sliding around your waist as his mouth returns to your other breast. 

With your mind entirely on what he’s doing with his lips you almost miss his other hand dropping to your knee where he begins to slide it under your chemise, only pausing when he feels the strap at your thigh. You can’t hold back your shudder at the feeling of his warm fingertips stroking across the bare skin just above the stocking, and you’re glad for the supporting arm around you as in the next moment his tongue swipes once more across the saturated fabric now clinging to your sensitive bud.

The dull ache in your stomach has become a throb and by the time he pulls his head back you need to do something with the built up energy which seems to be the force behind the frantic little movements of your hips. 

“Din, please…” you breathe, unsure of what you want him to do, but needing him to know how desperate you currently feel. Fortunately he seems to understand, unwrapping his arm from your waist and leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. Both of his hands begin working your chemise up your thighs inch by inch, chasing the movement with his lips until the straps tied to the top of your stockings are revealed, and his head reels back when he notices the small, wax Djarin seal.

“Is this…” he wonders aloud, his low voice rougher than usual as his eyes flicker up to the necklace before fixating on the embellishment.

“It is.” You confirm shyly, leaning back on your hands as he strokes over the crest, a quiet groan leaving him before he resumes his path up your thighs. Smoothing the material past your hips and up your torso, his lips resume in following, his speed increased as he drags open mouthed kisses along newly revealed skin before surging up to whip the garment off completely. 

Bare before him except for the flimsy stockings you’re vaguely aware of some sense of instinctive shyness, but he gives you little chance to fall prey to it as his mouth slants across yours with a fierceness that sends lightning down your spine. Reasserting the position of your legs at his sides with another sharp tug to your thighs, he licks into your mouth just once before he’s trailing down your exposed skin, nipping at an exposed nipple before soothing the sting with his tongue as his hands smooth up to grip your hips at the edge of the seat.

“I cannot decide if you are hunter or prey,” he murmurs into your skin sounding almost amused, and you feel his hand tremble slightly as it presses over the crested seal as if it could merge with your skin. Stroking a hand through his hair, you keep a supporting arm on the sofa behind you as his mouth lowers to your stomach, his movements teasingly light until he reaches your bare mound where he places a direct, open mouthed kiss against your core; your hips jolt from the unfamiliar but pleasant sensation, and with a deep groan he repeats the action, adding a gentle suck that draws a whine from you. 

“Din, what are you-” you begin, but your question remains unfinished as his tongue swipes up your slick centre, his eyes watching you intently as ever as your hand tightens instinctively in his soft strands. He begins slowly, alternating between kissing and licking between your folds and your eyes eventually flutter closed as he sets you alight with sensation. With a harsh suck, your back arches and he wrenches himself away to sit back on his heels.

“Eyes on me.” He demands with a squeeze to your hips, his mouth only returning to you with renewed intensity when you manage to meet his fierce gaze once more. You feel like your supporting arm is going to buckle with every pass of his tongue and unable to keep yourself from writhing at the edge of the seat, he pulls your legs over his broad shoulders, pressing impossibly closer as his tongue continues to wring a string of gasping sighs from you.

A pressure is building somewhere between the base of your spine and your naval and, as if he knows it, he presses a teasingly light kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves he’d been lavishing attention on before shifting back to take in your breathless state. His hum of satisfaction makes you twitch as his breath fans across your slick flesh and his hands shift to stroke soothingly along your legs, pausing at the small wax crest once more. You watch as his fingers play with the strap and without removing his eyes from yours he turns just enough to press a kiss to the skin of your inner thigh before he gently replaces your feet on the ground so he can stand.

Feeling dazed you don’t move an inch, leaning back with your legs spread as you watch him unbutton and remove his waistcoat with slow, deliberate movements, his dark eyes sweeping you from head to toe as he towers over you. With another layer gone you’re overcome with the need to touch him and you lean forward to curiously run your hands up his sides before rising on shaky legs to continue your exploration and relishing the wetness you can now feel between your thighs. 

He’s remarkably solid, you decide, and warm. Your palms flatten against his chest as you begin to map his torso, glad of a moment to regain control over your sluggish thoughts and he seems to enjoy your touch, his breathing growing ragged as he pushes himself forward into your hands. 

It reminds you of a cat arching into a caress and you find yourself smiling at the idea as you slowly prise one half of his shirt free from his breeches. A short, gruff sound erupts from the back of his throat as your hand slides under to feel the bare skin you cannot yet see, and you pause at the feeling of his stomach tensing. Looking up at him to ensure that your actions are acceptable, his hand wraps around your wrist and he draws your touch higher himself, so you’re a little bewildered by his wide-eyed expression. He looks almost lost and just as you are to ask if he’s alright, you notice his red ears. 

“Can I touch you?” You ask quietly, wondering how a man who had his mouth on such an intimate part of you with such enthusiasm moments ago can now appear almost shy over a caress of his skin. 

“Don’t stop.” He rumbles, his grip falling away from your wrist to curve around your waist, keeping you close. Trailing your hand down softly, you feel his stomach jump and you wish you could mimic his earlier actions and follow your hands with your mouth. Instead you make do by exploring his bared neck, enjoying the vibration of his pleased hum against your lips as you stroke up his side.

With a graze of your teeth, he seems to snap back into focus and begins herding you towards the bed, his countenance turned ferocious. Staggering from the force of his movement, he scoops you off your feet and tosses you onto the middle of the plush mattress, and landing with a yelp you dissolve into a fit of giggles as he crawls up after you. His dark eyes glint oddly in the dim light now that his back faces the fire, and his brows are furrowed though you cannot say he looks angry. Without pause he shoulders his way between your legs and latches his mouth to your soaked core once more. 

His tongue swipes against you in a maddening rhythm, punctuated by his lips sucking wetly at random intervals, winding the knot in your stomach tighter than ever as his arm lands heavily across your lower stomach halting the restless lift of your hips; a mindless grind that chases sensation. 

“Be still,” he commands roughly, wrenching his mouth away, “your pleasure is mine tonight, little dove.” His eyes drag across your body, down to where his tongue flicks out lightly, teasingly, just once and you can’t stop the needy whine that erupts from your throat as your head drops back heavily. “I want to give you everything,” he growls, his nose lowering to nuzzle you before another teasing flick brings both of your hands instinctively to his hair to pull him back where you simply know you need him to be. 

“Were you not listening?” He asks, his low, soft tone sending a shiver down your spine as he surges up to face you, letting your legs drop down to curl against his hips. He watches your mouth with raised eyebrows as you desperately try to form the start of a word, any word, a way to tell him what you don’t even know you need and he nods indulgently as he lowers his head to press his forehead to yours.

“You don’t yet know what your touch does to me, wife,” he says brushing your noses together affectionately, “and as I said, I want to give you everything.” He lowers his head to bring you into a heavy, messy kiss with his fingers on your jaw as the other holds his weight, and you eagerly tangle your tongue with his, tasting yourself as the cool metal of the ring on his little finger digs into your skin. 

Eventually pushing himself up, his eyes follow his hand as it slides down your throat to settle over your necklace where he thoughtfully lifts a garnet by a finger. 

“I said I wouldn’t remove that garter until this was the only thing you’re wearing, did I not?” he asks lightly, giving the jewel a little shake and you’re unable to do anything but nod in agreement as you swallow in an attempt to take in more air. His eyes drink you in beneath him for an endless moment longer before he shifts his weight back onto his heels and unhooks the garter strap without the seal first with only a momentary fumble on the tiny clasp. 

Smoothing the stocking down your leg, he is remarkably gentle with the delicate fabric as he removes it, instantly switching sides to repeat the action with your other leg as you rise up onto your elbows to watch him. With him positioned there you are unable to rub your thighs together to ease some of the tension he is building with unwavering diligence; you can only wait for him to make his next move as he drags the freed garter between his fingers contemplatively.

“I want to give you everything.” He says low and vehement as he gently gathers your hands, deftly wrapping the thin strap around your wrists before tying a loose, entirely decorative bow that frames the Djarin crest. “I will. Just let me…” he implores, voice rough as he raises your hands up above your head, urging you to lie back once more. From the loose feel, you know you could easily slip free but he seems less interested in restraining you than bringing you into this new side to your relationship with complete focus on you, and your freely given trust in him. 

Laying himself along your side, he balances his weight on an elbow and languorously mouths his way from your breast to your gasping mouth as his fingers trail a ticklish path down your stomach, sinking down between your parted legs with deliberate slowness. He groans into your mouth, feeling how wet you’ve become and two of his fingers begin to gently mimic the movements he’d made with his tongue as you kiss him back with desperation.

Suckling his plush bottom lip, you attempt to keep yourself still for him as his fingers dip low, teasing against your entrance before sinking in slowly. The stretch makes your toes curl and your hands above your head flex as he swipes his thumb across your aching bundle of nerves before pulling his fingers back with an audibly wet sound. Your jaw drops, and he licks into your mouth at the same moment his fingers push in once more, deeper, with another swirl of his thumb, and for the third time this evening the knot in your stomach winds itself tight. Your legs begin to shake as he continues filling you with his thick digits, kissing you relentlessly so that all you can think of or feel in this moment is him as your back arches in pleasure. 

“Din I-” you gasp out, the feeling in your stomach changing, intensifying, as his thumb works tight little circles that compels your spine into a dramatic arch.

“Let me give it to you…” He growls out, mouth just above your lips as his hooded eyes watch your expression closely and just like that, the knot seems to unravel in a wave of heat across your body as your walls spasm around his fingers. Your eyes flutter closed as a drawn out moan of his name escapes you at the exquisite feeling, and Din’s own hum of pleasure from watching you unravel for him only feeds the sparkling tingle that continues to wash across your skin. 

Nose to nose, he waits until you are able to refocus on him completely before slowly removing his fingers, scooping over your folds and you gasp from the brush against overstimulated nerves. You are unable to look away from each other, even as he brings his arm up and makes to place his fingers in his mouth. You move before you can think twice, your loosely tied hands moving down between you to grasp his wrist, and instead bring the glistening digits to your own curious lips.

His nostrils flare as he watches you innocently press a kiss to the two fingertips before following your instinct and closing your mouth over them, tasting yourself on his skin and watching as his mouth slackens at the swirl of your tongue. You add gentle suction as you pull away, enjoying the way his jaw ticks at the light popping noise when your lips leave him. 

“I want to make you feel just as good, husband.” You whisper, a little shy saying such a thing but you still feel dizzy with pleasure, and it seems to have you speaking without much thought to the ladylike behaviour expected of you here - silent and passive and in a demure and proper nightgown. 

Shifting to blindly work his shirt undone, you’re relieved when he helps you with the unfamiliar placement of buttons, rising to his knees to throw it off behind him before reaching for the garter around your wrists. With a single pull it comes away and he throws himself off the side of the bed with a lack of grace that has you stifling a laugh, turning onto your side to watch him wrestle his breeches off. 

Up until now, you had pointedly avoided the prominent bulge that disrupted the tailored lines of his lower half, and he had not given you much opportunity to be distracted from anything he had so far kept you occupied with. Now however, you’re fascinated by the sight of tanned skin, his torso bare and broad with more of him being revealed with every yank of clothing. Unlike his reverent handling of you, his motions are aggressively careless and you find yourself thinking that you’d like to show him the same care he’d bestowed on you. 

You watch as he crawls back to you and you prop yourself up to reach for him, a little fascinated by the sight of him having only seen a statue or two of the male form. You find yourself more enamoured by the reality than marble. He seems content to allow you a moment to explore, reclining against the myriad of oversized pillows at the ornate headboard as you run a hand over the same places you had felt under his shirt earlier and he closes his eyes with a heavy purr, fists clenching in the bedding at his sides. 

Feeling a little braver without his intense scrutiny, your eyes wander down to where his hard, thick length is curved proudly along his lower stomach. You swallow imagining it splitting you open just as his two fingers had. Without thinking, your exploring hand trails lightly along the enticing vein that protrudes on the underside and his eyes fly open, his hand catching your wrist with a speed that steals the breath from your lungs.

“I-” he begins hoarsely, “I am not used to being touched…” he manages to force the words out, his chest heaving as he turns on his side to mirror your own lounging position. “Tonight is not the night to see how quickly you can make me lose myself.” A tinge of humour colours his low voice as he strokes your cheek, his warm brown eyes relaxed as he leans forward, pushing you down onto your back and shifting to tangle a leg between yours as he kisses you again, slow and thorough.

Raking your fingers into his hair once more you arch into the touch of a hand smoothing down your skin to cup your breast, his thumb circling the sensitive bud as he buries his head into your neck with a fierce nip of his teeth. 

“You will tell me if I hurt you.” He demands suddenly, his expression serious as he raises his head to hover above you.

“You will not hurt me.” You say with a soft laugh, conscious that though he’d just used his teeth on such sensitive skin, the sharp feeling had been pleasurable; his aggression in this entire act born from passion rather than violence. 

Raking your nails over his scalp, his eyes snap shut and you feel his hips bear down, his hard length pressing into your thigh with a grunt. In the low light, his eyes appear black and you cannot bring yourself to look away as he shifts fully between your legs, his arms caging you in as he settles bodily over you, warm and solid. 

“Eyes on me.” He murmurs into your lips, repeating his demand from earlier as his rigid length parts your folds, slowly dragging himself through the slick still coating you. Your stomach leaps as his tip snags against your clit and your eyes blow wide at the throb fully reawakening in you - he continues to rock himself gently when he confirms that you are no longer oversensitive and though you’re grateful he is taking his time with you, you want all of him and so you rock back, your chin jutting up to close the minute space between you. 

“Oh!” You gasp, your mouth dropping open as the blunt tip of him pushes into you before drawing slowly back. He all but wraps himself around you, peppering kisses to your face as his already tense shoulders seize up when his next thrust sends him a little deeper. Your fingers tighten on his curling strands and you feel his growl reverberate through your own chest, his hips coming to a halt as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. 

“You are perfection.” He growls out, his hips finally flush against yours as he waits for you to adjust to his considerable size and your heart swells at his words. “Oh little dove…” he sighs, his head briefly dropping to suckle at your neck while he waits for you to let him know you’re at ease.

“Din I feel so full,” you say, sounding breathless and far away as you squeeze your walls around him out of curiosity, drinking in his strangled groan when you drag his head back to you for a desperate kiss. Lifting your knees higher against his sides you begin to rock your hips into him, needing him to move and finally the restraint in him snaps.

You’re aware of the slight burn of being stretched as he pulls out to the tip, but you can hear just how wet you are as he thrusts back into you and his mouth melds to yours as he uses the weight balanced on his forearms to build a deep, steady rhythm with his hips. With his body flush to yours you can feel every inch of him, inside and out, and the intimacy of it is almost overwhelming. Eventually he wrenches his mouth away, and begins to whisper in your ear, how tight you are, how wet you feel on him, how well you already take him.

Bringing himself up onto his knees, his hands drag down your body to fold your legs back with a firm grip on the back of your knees, his eyes riveting to where his length continues to sink into you. Pulling your legs further up towards your chest of your own volition, you open yourself for him completely, moaning at the feeling of him rutting against a spot inside you that sets your nerves alight and delighted by the openly awed expression on his handsome face. His long thrusts steadily develop into a grind, buried to the hilt as he rotates his hips, as if loath to leave your slick warmth for even a moment.

“You’re going to cum on me this time,” he says, sounding remarkably steady despite the rough quality of his voice, and your skin prickles at the memory of pleasure and he lowers his torso once more to begin suckling at your sensitive nipple, a large hand holding your breast firmly in place as he swipes his tongue rapidly across the tight bud before enveloping as much skin into his mouth as possible. Your back arches as his saliva cools on you rapidly in the air of the room when he moves across to give the same attention to your neglected side, his steady grind never relenting even when you squirm against him. 

“I’ve imagined it…” he confides into your skin, his teeth clamp playfully making you jolt and his hips bear down heavily to keep you in place as he bites again, a little harder, soothing the spot with his plush lips and placing both hands high up on your ribs to prevent you from arching away from his attentions as you pant up at the ceiling. “Imagined how you would look coming undone around me,” he grits out, shifting back to take in the sight of you breathless and clutching to the bedding like a lifeline. 

His next movement surprises you, withdrawing his length completely and you feel a gush of wetness spill out as your entrance flutters against the sudden emptiness. Ready to sit up and drag him back to you, he puts a stop to it before you even have the chance to move, his hands darting out to flip you onto your stomach. Huffing out a laugh at the feeling of being so easily manhandled, you relax into it, trusting him, as his hands smooth reverently over your hips before pulling them up and despite all you’d experienced so far, you feel yourself flush at the exposing position on your knees. 

“I’ve imagined this too.” He says with just enough cockiness that you turn your head to sass back, only for the words to die on your lips when his own latch onto you from behind, his hands squeezing the flesh of your cheeks harshly before parting them to swipe into you with his tongue. You feel the stirrings of pleasure build up rapidly this time, his tongue alternately licking into you and flickering over your pulsing clit until you’re right on the edge of cumming for the second time when he pulls his mouth away to thrust into you once more. His hands remain on your rump, his thumbs parting you enough for a better view of where he’s buried inside you, and you feel him throb heavily in the brief moment before he begins to move. 

His hips build up speed until they hammer into you accompanied by the harsh slapping sound of skin meeting skin and your jaw hangs open, a steady series of sweet sounds pouring from your lips as he fills you relentlessly. Bracing your hands in front of you, you eventually begin to push back against him, enjoying the way this position seems to bring the both of you a different, more primitive kind of pleasure. 

“Better than any dream,” he growls out, pushing and squeezing at your flesh in the vaguest resemblance of a massage, “you were made for me to fill up, little wife.” His words lance through you hotly, and you don’t register that you’ve begun to mindlessly chant his name when his grip transfers to your shoulders, wrenching you up against his chest. Without a delay in his merciless rhythm, one hand tangles into the necklace at the base of your throat, keeping you pinned to him while the other slithers down to begin working tight little circles between your legs. 

“Cum on me,” he breathes, his prominent nose burying into your neck as, unknown to you, his eyes drift down to where your chest heaves as your eyes squeeze shut with the pleasure building in you. The feeling is almost overwhelming, his fingers audibly swirling at the same speed as his thrusts, and you unthinkingly attempt to squirm away, unsure if you can take it all, but a wet tap to your clit from his flattened fingers both stops you moving and pushes you that much closer to the edge. It’s not quite a slap but it’s close enough that you still feel it as he continues his relentless circles when you’re back in place and when you finally cum, it’s with a silent scream as his pleased rumble vibrates along your back. 

You go slack in his arms and he presses a series of soothing kisses to your neck as he lowers you to the mattress, the deep baritone of his voice crooning praises in your ear slowly bringing you back to reality while he carefully maneuvers you onto your back once more. He hovers over you for a moment, stroking your face affectionately with the same fingers that were so relentless in bringing you to completion only moments ago, and with a dazed smile you turn your head to press a kiss to them before sliding your legs up around his hips to bring him back down to you. He guides himself there with ease, you’re so wet you can feel your cum drip from you as he bottoms out once more, and his eyes are ablaze even as he sets a deliberately slow pace. Lacing his fingers with yours, he pins your hands by your head and you tilt your chin to kiss along his jaw.

“You feel so good, Din,” you say sweetly when you reach the sharp corner of his jaw, and plastered as he is against you, you feel his stomach clench, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck, “you said I was made for you to fill?” You question, your innocent tone at odds with the way you grind up into him.

“Yes,” he hisses against your neck, surging into you a little harder as his grip on your hands tighten, his signet ring digging into your skin as he shifts them up slightly for better leverage. 

“Then will you?” you whisper and he drags his forehead to yours as if his head weighs a ton, his expression something close to ferocious, “will you make me yours completely, Din Djarin?” 

His answering snarl is all he seems capable of, his nostrils flaring as he ruts up into you with an intensity that snags a spot deep inside you, a spot that’s just on the right side of pain, before he seals his lips over yours and you feel him shudder. Warmth fills you and you both moan, lips opening against each other as his thrusts become shallower, unsteadier, before halting altogether with a final heavy jolt. 

After a moment, his hands release yours to wrap you in his arms as he rolls bonelessly to the side, and you tangle your legs with his as if it had been done a thousand times before. Stroking along his cheekbone you’re more than a little charmed by his boyish expression - his eyes disarmingly soft, mouth parted as he simply watches you, seemingly content to lie there with you in his arms. Neither of you move for some time, in no rush to disrupt the moment, tranquil and complete as it is, and it’s only when you jolt at a loud pop erupting from the fire you realise you must have been dosing off. 

He shifts then, easing his length from you, and while the sensation isn’t exactly unpleasant, you wince at the feeling of wetness flooding from your core and the small sound at the back of your throat has him seize up immediately, eyes searching your face rapidly for what you assume must be pain. When he sees none, only that you’ve pointedly looked down to where you had been joined, his gaze automatically follows and upon seeing his cum, mingled with your own, coating your lips and spilling out onto your thighs his eyes snap shut with a winded sound bursting from his chest. 

About to ask if he’s alright, he cuts you off by slanting his mouth over yours, caressing your lips with exquisite slowness as he rolls you onto your back. Pulling one of the large pillows into a better position under your head before sliding himself off the bed, briefly disappearing from view. When he returns you see that he has a cloth from the dresser, though you’re less intrigued by that than the still new sight of him bare, strongly built everywhere and seemingly at ease enough with you to remain uncovered as he heaves himself across the plush space to sit at your feet. 

He pauses there, and you yourself are not quite so at ease that when you see that his eyes are riveted to the sight between your legs you don’t fidget, a knee bending slightly as if it would hide the way you’re covered in him. 

His hand shoots out, covering your kneecap and firmly prying your leg wider, the corners of his eyes crinkle as a sly smile quirks his lips, and you wonder what could be going on in his head when he suddenly tosses the cloth carelessly aside. 

“I said I wanted to give you everything…” he says darkly as he once again places his shoulders between your legs, settling his hand heavily across your pubic bone. He briefly glances up at you as you prop yourself on your elbows, undeniably curious and feeling the now almost familiar thrill race down your spine. Seeing that you clearly were not shifting to object, he smears his thumb through the fluid from where it has made its way down to the bedding, all the way up to his index finger resting just above your bundle of nerves and you swallow heavily.

Your breathing quickly grows shaky once more as he moves to repeat the path with his middle and ring finger, this time pushing his cum back inside you with a low hum. Your legs jolt and your stomach flips, affected by the action in ways you can’t begin to quantify. Once again his dark eyes seek yours, measuring your reaction before continuing, messily replacing his cum where he wants it before his mouth eventually lowers to finish the job and your head drops back, now seeing that the night is not yet over…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: regency women generally didn’t wear underwear beyond reviled childhood drawers, so their layering of gowns was partly to avoid flashing everyone, as well as to assist creating the desired smooth empire silhouette. The more you know, eh?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any comments are most sincerely appreciated! Please feel free to come join me on tumblr where I'm @jura-moon!


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